Angels and Demons
by alwaysflying
Summary: Eight young, unrelated children have always longed for rebellion but never considered just how to go about achieving it. As it happens, rebellion comes in the form of growing up.
1. Mark

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Mark is three.

The fact of the matter is, everybody knows that he is three. This has something to do with Mark's constant insistance, "Free!" with three pudgy fingers held up. He tries to express the "th" sound with great difficulty, and finds himself stammering "f... f... f..." instead, face and fists scrunched up in struggle.

For a three-year-old with a lisp (then again, what three-year-old doesn't have one?), Mark is remarkably intelligent. With bright, wide eyes, he tries his best to learn all there is to learn - from books, from adults' lectures, and from the animated movies he can't help but love. At three, Mark is not yet one for commenting on film styles and flaws in filmography, but he is fascinated by the motion of pictures over a screen. His favorite of all is Robin Hood, the Disney-produced tale of he who steals from the rich to give to the poor. When Mrs. Cohen asks her son what he has learned from his beloved movie, Mark responds in a soft voice, "T'borrow a bit from those who can afford it."

When Mark tells her this, Mrs. Cohen hesitates. It has been a long time since she has answered Mark anything other than "Correct, very good," but here she has reason to pause. Is it better to compliment the prodigy on his observation or teach him something? In a monotone, she declares, "No, Mark. It's never okay to steal, or not to pay money when you have to. Or else it's not playing fair." But she is only half-hearted in saying so, and she has the strange feeling that while she may have made an impression on Mark's head, her advice will never make its way through to the boy's heart.

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Mark is four.

He can climb and play and jump. These are his crowning accomplishments, the achievements that tell him that he is four and not three anymore. When he was three he had no interest in climbing to the top of the jungle gym, but now he does it just to show himself that he can. This is because sometimes he forgets what he can do, like when he thinks he can resist the lure of pineapple sorbet, his favorite dessert (discovered to be his favorite one day in June when Cindy finished all the chocolate ice cream) and the times when he mistakenly believes he is capable of playing games with his sister. Climbing the jungle gym, at least, is something that he is always able to do, no matter the day. It does, however, depend on the weather.

Mark loves the snow. He stares out the window and watches the grass whiten and pile up. He doesn't quite understand it, why the snow is cold and wet and so oppressive, but these are what he likes about it. He loses himself while making snow angels, completely sinking into what is the grass under its pretense of being depthless, purely white, and spongey. Mark watches the glimmer of his family menorah in the window, visible as he forms snowpeople and snow angels and has lengthy conversations with all of his creations. His "best" and favorite creation of all is a snow angel: nameless, a "champion hugger" and above all, Mark's adoring best friend. He calls this creation (who does not have a name because Mark cannot decide whether it ought to be male or female) Angel.

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Mark is five.

He begins kindergarten with his hands shoved in his pockets and brand-new glasses ("Don't worry, Mark, you'll learn to love them") on his face. Mark secretly thinks of his glasses as being something other than completely clear; he wonders if they warp his viewing of the world, and if they do, what this should mean. He is remarkably deep-thinking for a five-year-old, mocked by his classmates and curiously observed by his teacher, who is fresh out of college and thinks she knows far more than she actually does.

Mark has several issues with kindergarten. For one, he believes that it is unfair, how he cannot run and play wherever and whenever he desires to. At home, Mrs. Cohen is less than attentive and scarcely present, and so it was only a matter of time before Mark finds his way outside with the house keys clutched in his sweaty palm. So he considers it unkind and unjust that he must remain within the school walls (and, when outside, schoolyard fence) at all times.

Another problem Mark has is with the other students. Well, they aren't quite students yet, as nothing is being learned in the class apart from how to socialize and how fast one must run in order to get an "uncrumbly" cookie. But they are his classmates, and they are unsatisfactory to Mark. Chirpy and obnoxious and loud, every single five- and six-year-old imprisoned in the brick-walled "dungeon" (as Mark calls it in his imagination, which is boundless and rarely as cheerful as one might expect of a five-year-old) is deemed, to Mark, an unacceptable companion. Mark does not realize how picky he is; after all, he personally believes that he has many friends, invisible to others though they are.

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Mark is six.

Chanukah is not his favorite holiday. Sure, there are presents, but Mark is content without said presents anyway, and Cindy always manages to procure the spotlight for herself as she unwraps the supposedly god-given present, whatever it may be depending on the year. Besides, Chanukah loses its impact after the third or fourth night, when Mark begins to slur his words in uttering the prayers and no longer desires to play dreidle, even if it is for chocolate coins.

Birthdays are celebrated in the Cohen household in a rather awkward way. The birthday person - Mrs. Cohen, Mr. Cohen, Cindy or Mark - chooses the restaurant at which dinner will be held, usually the birthday person's favorite place, although it varies. That means to Mark that the February birthday of Cindy will be celebrated over French cuisine, his father's July birthday over Indian food, his mother's December anniversary of birth a la Chinese food, and his own April celebration at the place of Cindy's choice, because after all, no six-year-old is allowed to make his own decisions. Mark begins to resent his sister for this, and even though cake and presents are dedicated to him, he grows to dislike birthdays as well.

Passover is not a favorite of Mark's, because it is too wrapped in tradition for there to be any room for Mark's creativity. He sits sulkily at the "kids' table" with Cindy and other cousins, legs dangling - unable to touch the floor - and arms crossed over his chest. To top it off, Mark loathes the leaven-free "bread" served called matzoh, and enjoys flinging it at whatever aunt or uncle ends up with the loathsome task of serving the children their food.

Thanksgiving has too much food for Mark to really enjoy it, and the true unfairness of this is that he does not like any of the food anyway. It is hardly a reflection on his taste, because anybody would loathe turkey prepared by a tense Jewish mother complaining about how "Pesach seders are so much more pleasant" and demanding that Mark and Cindy pull their own weight in preparation of the meal that neither of them will truly eat.

Halloween has never had any appeal to Mark, mostly because costumes seem silly to him when people can always tell what lies beneath the mask. Besides, it is hardly a change for him when all he ever really wears is a mask anyway.

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Mark is seven.

To him, seven means many things. Being seven means that he could, if so he desired, audition for the school play. Though it is not something that Mark would even remotely wish to do, acting is a passion of Cindy's and therefore a passion of Mrs. Cohen's as well. So without a single word of his own imput, Mark is forced through the audition process and, much to his surprise, finds his name on the cast list of the elementary school musical.

It is true that Mark has a spectacular singing voice. But then again, he is seven, and most seven-year-old boys are fairly talented at singing, and those that aren't rarely find themselves inclined to sing anyway. Mark fits into the small category of those boys with good voices but no desire to sing publicly. After all, he has been conditioned (mostly by Cindy and his parents, but by schoolmates and even teachers as well) to dislike attention in general, a rule which falters occasionally, such as when Mark gets back particularly excellent schoolwork to put on display at home.

So with his sweet, smooth voice, Mark is an ideal candidate for the role of Michael Darling. His baby face and tender personality only add to these complimentary features, and so that is the role that Mark has. He likes neither the spotlight nor the role that he is to play, but it is an Assignment, and like many other Assignments that Mark has had in the past, it is like a rock: unbudging, not up for debate, and unlikable.

What Mark does not remember years later about his experience in Greenacres Elementary School's production of Peter Pan is the tremendous amount of applause he recieves, and the cast recieves. Though he loathes the memory of his performance and eventually forgets it altogether, Mark spends the first few years immediately following this event recalling it in vivid detail, tacking to his wall a newspaper clipping - a review of the show - in which "Mark Cohen, a seven-year-old sweetheart" recieves a great deal of praise.

Praise is something that comes scarcely to Mark, although it is much-appreciated and very well-deserved.

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Mark is eight.

He discovers much about himself in the time frame of exactly fourteen hours. His sister Cindy - four years and seven months older than Mark - is the golden child, and the guest of honor at her own Bat Mitzvah. After eleven months of enduring Cindy's Hebrew chanting, which is rarely accurate but impossible to decipher and thus always praised, Mark is strapped in the car beside a dress-clad elder sister, behind tense parents and in a car alongside those of relatives he'd rather have never met.

Mark learns, through being coddled and irritated by aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, that he is not always as good-natured and sweet as he often is. For example, he finds it extraordinarily easy to wail, "Leave me alone!" when the seventeenth cousin approaches him inquiring about "Marky's widdle toes". Similarly, when he is caught by surprise at Cindy's party and lifted up on a chair, Mark shrieks and wails until he is returned to the ground, at which point he fiercely kicks John, the twenty-four-year-old Master of Ceremonies and instigator of such torment.

It is on this very evening that Mark makes three promises to himself. One is that he will never become anything like Cindy's male peers, with their dark eyeliner and arms crossed over their chests as they try to look attractive. (To Mark, their stances look more like Grandpa Joey with his cane, leaning against the wall, than anything else.)

The second promise is that Mark wll never be attracted to girls like Cindy's female peers. This is an obvious promise; Mark has never seen anything less appealing than the lipstick-wearing drama queens of Cindy's social croud. In their skirts and tight tops, sneaking wine coolers on the hour, Mark finds them to be not only unattractive, but also flat-out irritating.

The third promise is that someday Mark will operate one of those sturdy, steady machines recording every minute of Cindy's party; although in seventeen years Mark will find them to be slightly more technologically advanced, cameras are, in essence, always the same honest and thoughtful machines that Mark loves.

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Mark is nine.

One day he is approached by one of his classmates, and Mark cringes upon sight of him. It is not that Mark has any hard feelings towards this boy in particular; simply put, Mark dislikes socializing in general because he feels that nobody could possibly hold up an intelligent conversation with him. He wonders if this is egotistical, but then reminds himself that it is true, that's all, and the proof lies in his classmates.

According to their grades, there are three "smartest" students in Mark's fourth-grade class. This is common knowledge amongst these students (and probably their classmates as well), simply because they are smart enough to recognize this. The three students' names are Mark Cohen, Nanette Himmelfarb, and Roger Davis.

Nanette is composed and soft-spoken. She is a transfer from a private school called a yeshiva, which she previously attended but left because she was uncomfortable with her father's being the "rebbe", or principal. Other private schools were then sought out, but none were quite as good as Greenacres Elementary School - while public, Greenacres is in fact an excellent school catering to the hardworking students of Scarsdale. And so Nanette found herself in Mark's class, as well as in his Hebrew School class. Mark knows her very well now, from her curly brown hair to her plaid skirts, and often entertains the idea of having a crush on her. But try as he might, Mark finds himself unable to like her, and leaves it at that.

Roger is also quiet, just as Nanette and Mark are, but he is the kind of quiet that seems to scream things in his silence. He sulks and frowns and shakes his head, but his opinions are strong and fierce when scrawled on paper. Because "Davis" immediately follows "Cohen" in the alphabet, he and Mark are briefly seat-neighbors in the beginning of the year, and Mark learns Roger's entire personality in the three weeks of sitting beside him. Roger is loud outside of school, sharing his opinions with his family, with whom he is extremely close, but in school keeps to himself, knowing that he does not truly desire the companionship of any of his schoolmates anyway.

Mark watches Roger and Nanette and finds himself reflected in both of them, and would almost desire to become either one's friend, but then remembers having promised himself never to socialize with any such people. He keeps his eyes on his schoolwork and keeps his mind to himself, refraining from imagining having fun with his "friends" Nanette and Roger. Instead, Mark is focused on that which is required of a boy his age, and forbids himself from doing anything more.

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Mark is ten.

Cindy, now a freshman in high school, begins to take the daily forty-minute commute to and from a private Manhattan theater-oriented high school. She studies dance and music and acting, never neglecting to come home and demonstrate what she has learned each day. Mark, as a result of Cindy's newfound passion, is forced to select a performance art of his own to study and eventually perform onstage. Although he has already been in a musical and loathed the experience, Mrs. Cohen is convinced that her son will love to learn to tango, and promptly registers him for lessons at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center.

As Mark expects, he detests the lessons, although his hatred for them spins largely from the fact that he has horribly uncomfortable dancing shoes and cannot bear to move very much in them. That alone cements his obstinate refusal to thrive at the dance, and so his private one-on-one lessons are abandoned in favor of partnered lessons, with Mark's fellow tango failure, Nanette Himmelfarb.

Mark kicks off his dancing shoes to even out his and Nanette's height, and finds an immediate difference in his tangoing success and pleasure. In his first few moves across the floor, he is not only significantly better at the step, but also finds himself enjoying it. The moment that thought crosses his mind, Mark is horrified, and takes several steps towards his shoes. Instructor Doreen Himmelfarb, however, will have none of this, and refuses to allow Mark to put his shoes back on, forcing him to continue dancing.

Mark never forgets how to tango, but then again, whenever he does it in the future, he keeps his shoes on.

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Mark is eleven.

Now nearing the end of his childhood, Mark is slowly developing skills and habits that will follow him into adulthood. For example, he steadily begins to detatch, creating his own little world. Inside that world resides a whole host of things that Mark adores, such as a perfect family (posessed neither by Mark nor by anyone in the real world, apart perhaps from the children on the sitcoms Mark loathes and Cindy loves), group of friends, ideal hometown (New York City), and the list goes on.

The first, a perfect family, is not so important in Mark's fantasies as one might think. He spends few waking hours at home anyway, preferring to lurk under an oak tree in a nearby park and simply observe. But when he is home, Mark faces the harsh reality of having a mother who simply does not love Mark half as much as she loves her other child. The true injustice of this is in the fact that Cindy is not nearly as perfect as her mother seems to believe she is; in her spare time, the fifteen-year-old experiments with the kind of things Mark would only expect of rebel child April Ericcson, Cindy's long-time best friend and horrible influence. (April has always ignored a very indifferent Mark.)

Friends are a more distant realm of desire for Mark. He longs for friends apart from those whom he secretly knows do not exist, the fluttering presences in his life encouraging him to Do Bad Things, the causes for his occasional groundings and scoldings. The friends Mark desires to have are calm, cool and collected, even if they occasionally lurk in alleyways with forbidden substances. Mark is young, but he lives with Cindy (and occasionally April) and a drunken father, so he has seen much which is often kept from eleven-year-olds' wandering eyes.

Mark's eleventh birthday is observed with a celebratory voyage into New York City. Manhattan is to Mark an occasional treat, the land of smoky buildings and crowded streets and, bless them, impersonal establishments. He is able to be invisible and not fawned over by neighbors and family friends and relatives that he doesn't like anyway. So in Mark's imaginary world, he lives in this city that he loves so much.

At eleven, Mark knows what he wants, but is not entirely certain how he will achieve it all. It is also a possibility that Mark does not even intend to achieve these dreams, but wants to simply imagine them. Nobody knows what goes on inside his tiny blond head, because he is so good at doing the one thing his sister and mother have in common with him - masking his emotions. It comes easily and quickly to him, and once he begins such a practice, it is impossible to stop.

Everyone has their addictions. Some are just more obscure than others.

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Mark is twelve.

He has always longed for rebellion but never considered just how to go about achieving it. As it happens, rebellion comes in the form of a young girl he has never really liked but has always had to deal with anyway. She is sixteen, and despite her recent falling-out with Mark's sister - or perhaps because of it - April does her best to maintain a positive relationship with Mark, a relationship that she has (up to this point) never really had.

Now, however, Mark can oftentimes be found in the front seat of April's father's convertible, seat belt buckled over his torso and legs finally reaching the floor of the car. April messes up Mark's hair a little and smears eyeliner onto his eyes, with Mark unwittingly breaking the very first promise he made to himself three years ago, at a celebration of his sister's coming-of-age that didn't even really happen.

Because Mark has never truly had any real friends - he is now willing to concede, aloud even, that his former friends were both imaginary and evil - he is quick to accept the friendship of April Ericcson. With her comes the presence of the substances that make her so alive and full of energy, transforming her from the dull-eyed teenager she might otherwise be. She does not tell Mark specifically that she uses drugs, or what drugs she uses, but Mark is neither stupid nor ignorant, and he hears things. Even at such a young age, children are taught of the presence of such things early on, along with a "Just Say No" policy that even Mark can identify as being idiotic.

With April as his friend, Mark feels more secure. He finds himself embarking on new adventures - years later, in a rage directed towards both April and whoever bought her a set of razorblades, he will recognize that the adventures were more Mark's actions based on April's commands and wicked ideas. Regardless, Mark enjoys himself and finds himself on temporary, completely original highs that allow him to smile and forget the constant thought processes in his mind. For example, as April teaches the twelve-year-old to drive in the high school parking lot, Mark both absorbs the experience and forgets he is even existing. It is a memory he never forgets, but he will never be able to recall the exact feelings he experienced as the car spun around corner after corner after corner, Mark pleading with himself not to crash into anything.

On the day before his thirteenth birthday, Mark is in the passenger seat of April's father's car (driven into the city by April with help from Mark) and finds himself at the metaphoric intersection of Peer Pressure and Just Say No. When, a year later, Mark announces to his parents that he is moving to the city, the most recent memory he has of Manhattan is of himself and April running through the streets, Under The Influence. Perhaps that is why Mark remembers the city so fondly in later years, rather than recalling the grunts and bellows of passersby and the city's ability to be too hot one day and too cold the next. All Mark remembers is the soaring, whooping, crazed high he experienced for the first time at the age of twelve.

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Mark is thirteen.

He does not want a Bar Mitzvah, but it is coming up anyway. However, in the weeks prior to it, Mark no longer considers himself a child. April is running away, she tells him, and does he want to go with her? Mark does not even consider disagreeing; he throws together an assortment of clothes and shoves it into a backpack, slings one of his father's scarves over his neck, and settles comfortably in the car that is now indispituably April's and Mark's.


	2. Angel

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Angel is three.

Fed occasional scraps of food and kept on his toes by always ducking his father's blows, Angel is very skinny and very alert. He is so attentive, in fact, that he often notices things before they actually happen. A split second before the phone rings, Angel is at the nightstand, ready to grab the telephone and hand it to the nearest grown-up. Moments before it starts to rain, Angel runs into the house with his arms over his head. And of course, when his father takes a few steps towards the refrigerator, Angel dashes upstairs and hides under his bed, because he knows about The Bottles, and the fact that his father never reacts well after consuming the liquid inside.

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Angel is four.

Mama likes to sing to him. Sometimes she croons gentle lullabies, either in Spanish or in English, or sometimes in both. The fact is that she speaks very little English, which is probably how she got roped into marriage with Papa in the first place. But when she sings, she ties words together that would otherwise always be apart, making no sense but succeeding in crooning Angel to sleep. Or so she thinks. As she stands over a sleeping Angel, all the little boy can think of is how much he loves his Mama, and he does not fall asleep until, long after she leaves, he mulls the words over in his own head. Angel certainly recognizes beauty, because it is evident in so little in his life that he must create his own description for it.

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Angel is five.

There is something new in the house, and Angel suspects it may be alive. It screams and cries and makes strange noises, flailing its limbs wildly. Horrifyingly enough, this strange creature seems to have been the replacement of Mama, who Angel never sees anymore. Not seeing Mama is very unnerving for the little boy, who is terrified that Papa will now hurt him even more, and more often, now that Mama is no longer home. Papa, however, is now a rare presence as well, although Angel often comes across traces of cigarettes and The Bottles revealing that he must be somewhere in the house. Sometimes he is found smoking on the shabby sofa, tears streaming down his cheeks and barely avoiding extinguishing the cigarette. Angel sometimes sits on the floor just by the doorway, out of sight as Papa whispers words and names that Angel does not recognize. The new creature sobs on.

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Angel is six.

What Angel calls a "bed" is, all pretenses abandoned, really just a scrappy blanket, ratty pillow, and cot elevated on top of phone books. He sleeps on the floor of the bathroom, occasionally disturbed in his sleep by his intoxicated father's entrance, quick "business," and departure. Sometimes his father will kick Angel on his way out, as a way of reminding him that even while he's sleeping, his father still has complete control over him. When Angel wakes up because of this, he thinks that it is only a nightmare and goes back to sleep. Always, just before he falls asleep, he sings little lullabies to himself, either aloud or in his head. As he sings, he pictures Mama, wondering where she is now, because by now Angel is certain that she is not coming home. She left, he tells himself, because of Papa and me. Because I was bad and Papa was scary. In the end, however, he falls asleep to soft dreams of tender Mama's beautiful voice.

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Angel is seven.

The creature, Angel now learns, is called a baby. Its offical name is undecided, but now that it can walk and talk a little bit, Angel has decided to call it Tom. He does not know why he loves this name so much, but nevertheless he does, and so that is what the baby is called. Papa, on the other hand, calls the child Nicholas, a name that Angel has heard thrown around the house enough times to suspect that it is Papa's name as well. Both the baby and Papa have the same eyes, so dark they are nearly black, although Angel surprises everyone by having eyes of a lighter shade of brown, deep and mysterious as the color varies from chocolate to cinnamon. Tom/Nicholas sometimes stares at Angel for a bizarre amount of time, blinking as he takes in the wonder that is his older brother. In a display of affection, Angel returns his brother's awe by taking care of the younger boy – changing and providing his diapers, bathing him, and teaching him what different things are called. After all, Angel cannot forget that Tom's first word was "Angel."

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Angel is eight.

Mama's sister was always friendly with everyone, so even in the aftermath of Mama's death, Papa and Angel are invited to the wedding of Mama's sister. Angel vaguely remembers Mama's sister, a slim dark-haired woman with a bright smile and sparkly eyes. She used to give Angel cookies and kisses and presents in boxes with shiny paper.

Papa, even though he doesn't like being reminded of Mama, decides to go. He is disgruntled about it, but agrees to go regardless. He rents a tuxedo for himself and goes to rent two, one for each of the boys, and sends Angel to get his wallet. When Angel returns, however, he is wearing not his long tee-shirt and boxers as he was previously, but instead a long skirt of Mama's, worn in this instance as a dress. Papa's eyes darken to the color of midnight, his face turning purple, and he gives Angel five lashes with the belt before taking both boys in the car to go get the tuxedos. Angel does not forget, however, the free feeling he experienced when twirling around in the skirt. He shares this with Tom later, but the little boy has nothing to say. So with no other recourse, Angel tells it to Mama, staring out his window into the sky and asking "why?"

His answer comes in a dream that night, but Angel cannot decipher what exactly Mama meant.

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Angel is nine.

In fourth grade, most boys have the impression that anyone who is different should be loathed by all. Angel, whose voice is quiet and eyes are insightful, who has little to say and no inclination to play "rough" at recess, is certainly different from the other boys. When mocking challenges are shot towards him such as "You a boy or a girl, _Angel_?", the boy says nothing and turns away, often to do his schoolwork or run his fingers up and down cuts and bruises on his arms. One day, however, Angel is ambushed after school on his way home by six boys, familiar names in the school and known for their strength and muscle. Lacking the inclination to fight anyone and having been conditioned to _never _fight back, Angel lies still as punches are thrown towards him. The boys grow quickly bored with him, and Angel returns home with a split lip and black eye. This is not an unnatural occurance in the Schunard home, however, because if it weren't the boys who did it to him, it would be Papa. Angel merely retreats to his room silently to work on his homework, uncaring. He knows that the bruises will fade with time, and considering how often he is beaten at home, the memory will probably do so as well.

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Angel is ten.

Now in his final year of elementary school, Angel's school is having a dance to celebrate. Wide-eyed, Angel shies away from the fliers and hopes that he will not be asked to attend, knowing that he has duties around the house to attend to. However, he is surprised when Papa permits – no, insists – that Angel go to the dance. Papa mutters something to himself about trying to make sure that Angel doesn't turn out to be a "faggot," but Angel does not know what that means and does not care to find out. He merely goes to school and shyly asks if the person he has thought of as "cute" for quite some time already has a date, or would like to go with Angel.

Angel is turned down, and as he stares at his feet, his invitee walks away, laughing with his friends. Angel spends the evening of the dance curled up in the bathroom, waiting for it to be over so he can go home and Papa will think that he spent the night dancing with pretty girls and having a good time.

However, that couldn't be farther from the truth.

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Angel is eleven.

After Papa's brief explanation of how babies are made, Angel asks how Tom happened without Mama. Papa storms away and leaves Angel with his questions, some of which involve how a baby could be created between two men, because Angel suspects that that might be his route of choice. After all, girls are "icky," even at eleven, and Angel cannot imagine doing anything with a girl beyond simple talking – and even that's a stretch. Although, he must admit to himself, they _do _dress well. Maybe, he thinks to himself, maybe _I _could be a girl. It makes sense in his undereducated eleven-year-old mind, because after all, if a baby can only be made between a man and a woman, and Angel likes boys, he should be the girl. Right?

When he presents his theory to Papa, he receives ten lashes. Angel returns to his room that night and, hopelessly confused, cries into his pillow.

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Angel is twelve.

For Halloween, the deeply-confused Angel decides that he is to try out his being-a-girl theory. He tells Papa that he will take Tom trick-or-treating, and upon departure from their house, both Schunard boys wear pirate costumes. Immediately after exiting, however, Angel ducks behind the building and changes into the costume of a princess, complete with a short black wig, skirt-dress, and pink slippers, all of which he took from Mama's closet. Tom gives Angel a curious look, but after a while, the two boys become comfortable in their setting, visiting houses and getting candy. Although Tom's pirate costume is conventional and loved, the unfamiliar neighbors are charmed by the princess taking "her" brother out for Halloween. Angel, delighted that he has managed to pass for a girl, successfully flirts with a boy from his class, Carlos, who does not recognize Angel and returns the flirting by staying with Angel and Tom for the rest of the evening.

Angel's first "date" is concluded with a kiss on the doorstep, and Halloween remains Angel's favorite holiday forevermore.

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Angel is thirteen.

One school day, Angel decides to repeat his Halloween act of changing into girls' clothing upon leaving the house. When he arrives at school, he receives strange looks and verbal abuse of all kinds, but when shaven-head notoriously intolerant football player Tim Mann continuously hassles Angel, the bright-eyed boy spins around and proclaims, "I'm more of a man than you'll ever be, Mann, so shut up." A new ending to this phrase comes years later, when Angel has been dressing like a woman for quite a while and has a default answer in mind.

When Angel neglects to change out of his skirt-dress before returning home that night, he and Papa have their first and last true verbal fight, where both voice their opinions and, heavens above – Angel comes out on top. Although Papa is stronger and fiercer than Angel could ever hope to be, Angel is smarter and certainly more staunch in his opinions. The boy tells Papa that at least he isn't wearing makeup, and a horrified Papa retreats to his room, complete with the company of cigarettes and The Bottles. Angel, satisfied, enters the bathroom and tries out his new idea of make-up, and is delighted to find that it works on him. The next day in school, he wears what is indisputably women's clothing, and is so proud and confident that nobody says a challenging word to him. Not a single bruise adorns his body when he returns home from school that day, Angel is proud to display, and not even Papa wants to pick a fight with this new Angel.

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Angel is fourteen.

When Papa threatens to resort to a new kind of abuse with this "girl," Angel, enraged, resorts to violence for the first time in her life. Later she will not remember exactly what she threw at Papa, but it was certainily something quite heavy and bearing with it enough force to slam Papa's head into the sofa and knock him unconscious. Immediately after doing so, Angel races to the bathroom to find Tom sitting there calmly, flipping through a schoolbook. Angel explains their predicament to her brother and somberly announces that she cannot live there anymore, that she is leaving. She invites Tom to go with him, nearly begging – "please, Tom, please come with me."

But Tom shakes his head and explains that even with a violent father, a nine-year-old is best at home. He wishes Angel good luck on her journey, and with a twinkle in his eye, says that "I'll never forget my sister." If either ever sees the other again, it is in passing, but Angel does react unexpectedly to any future mention of the name "Tom," never being able to forget the first person who recognized her journey in life, and the first person to ever affectionately acknowledge her gender of choice.


	3. Joanne

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Joanne is three.

She prides herself on knowing a lot of things. She can read, for one thing, which is the accomplishment she feels is greatest. She does not remember the day, exactly, on which she first learned to read, which she considers disappointing because it would be nice to have that memory. All grown-ups know how to read, and none of them remember how they learned, so it would be good to grow up and be able to remember. But nevertheless, try as she might, Joanne cannot uncover that memory or differentiate it from the other ones.

Joanne knows other things, too. She knows how to count up to ten – one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten. She knows her name and address and phone number, but Momma and Daddy say not to tell that to anyone. She also knows Momma and Daddy's names, which are even worse to say around town because not a lot of people like Momma and Daddy. Joanne vaguely understands that it has something to do with their having dark skin, but she doesn't know what that has to do with anything. Like Daddy says sometimes, though, "people can be silly." Joanne thinks it's very silly for people to not like people just because they have a different color skin, but grown-ups are weird.

There is one other important thing that Joanne knows, which is considered by many to be far ahead of her age. Because most three-year-olds do not understand the concept of money, she is certainly considered abnormal. But yes, Joanne knows about money. She knows that Momma and Daddy have more money than most people, and that they live in a prettier house than most people, and have a nice car that a lot of people don't. And she knows that Momma and Daddy help people who are in trouble. According to Daddy, when one grown-up says something mean about someone else, they get to go to a really sparkly building and fight about it using big words. Momma and Daddy help people fight about it and help people get money. And when Joanne grows up, that's what she's gonna do, too.

That's what Joanne's been taught, anyway. And since grown-ups are usually right, she doesn't know why she would ever question it.

----

Joanne is four.

One day, coming home from preschool, Joanne has a new development to share with Momma and Daddy. Since they're both at work, she waits until dinnertime, when everyone is home and settled and comfortable. That is when she announces that she has a new friend, a _best _friend, whose name is Adelaide and who smiles a lot. Joanne, who smiles relatively infrequently unless she's playing with Daddy, has always taken a special interest in people who are particularly different from her. Adelaide, a light-skinned girl with pretty hazel eyes, scarlet hair and a recurrent smile, is as different from Joanne as night from day. In contrast to Joanne's stiff, financial comfort, Adelaide's family is very poor, plentiful in its numbers, and artistic.

In five days of Momma and Daddy's nail-biting as Joanne returns from school, a tighter and tighter bond between the two girls is established. Adelaide, who loves to paint and often has an entire rainbow smudged over her hands, arms, and cheeks, encourages Joanne to let loose and be artistic as well. At first, Joanne is cautious and unsure, but Adelaide insists, and Joanne returns from school one day with a Play-Doh sculpture of her house, popsicle-stick people scattered throughout – most of them are colored brown, but the smallest popsicle stick is accompanied by an equally small rainbow-colored person. It is from that day forward that Momma and Daddy cease their negative feelings towards Joanne's friendship with Adelaide. It is clear that there is an enormous profit from every moment the girls spend together, even the times where they just giggle together and talk about the boys in their class and how they get cooties on all the best toys.

One day Joanne races down the steps and tells Momma and Daddy that she wants to marry Adelaide. When her parents look at her in bewilderment, Joanne informs them, "You marry your best friend, right? Well, Addie's mine." Momma and Daddy have nothing to say to that, and although they agree with Joanne for the most part, they wonder if she ought to be playing with more boys from her class as well.

-----

Joanne is five.

She is aghast to discover that she and Adelaide will be separated for their grade school years. Although Joanne had the dubious privilege of attending a public preschool, Momma and Daddy feel that there is no better place for their darling girl than a private school. When they see how much this pains Joanne, however, and the temper tantrums she almost pulls but turns into shouting matches instead, they contact Adelaide's family and offer to pay for half of the young artist's tuition. Although they appreciate the offer, Adelaide's parents explain that _they couldn't possibly_, and promise that the girls will spend time together before and after school, on weekends, and over holidays. But Joanne and Adelaide, seeing this unfortunate turn of events as the end of the world, cross their arms and silently protest.

Adelaide tries pouting. Joanne tries careful debate, which, again, eventually turns into frustrated shouting. Everyone has their breaking point, and Joanne even feels added frustration when seeing Adelaide's "babyish" method of attempting to get what she wants. "We're big kids now," she tells Adelaide, but to no avail. Adelaide remains stoic in her beliefs that a pout and a promise to color a picture for her momma and daddy will _always _work out. Neither tactic is successful. (Although it must be said that Momma and Daddy are greatly amused by watching Adelaide's attempts, as are Adelaide's parents in watching Joanne.)

At last, September the second rolls around, and Adelaide and Joanne – who had a sleepover the night before – roll out of bed and pull on their respective school clothes. Joanne, wearing a knee-length plaid skirt, tights, Mary Janes and a button-down collared shirt, is hardly recognized by an aghast Adelaide. Adelaide, on the other hand, outfitted in sneakers, paint-stained jeans, and a tank top, causes Joanne's jaw to drop as she exclaims, "They let you wear _that _to big-kid school?" Adelaide's question is much the same, and she – raised, as she was, by liberal parents – wonders how a school can get away with stomping a child's individuality. She proposes the question to Joanne, but when no response comes, the only possible answer is that some children simply do not have enough individuality to function without guidelines. Adelaide wonders if Joanne is one of these people.

------

Joanne is six.

Surprisingly, she finds that she learns well enough without Adelaide constantly pulling on her sleeve and demanding that she share the crayons. In first grade, Joanne is startled to discover, there _aren't_ any crayons – at least, not most of the time. First grade is all about learning words and numbers. In most cases, first grade is about learning _letters _and numbers, and maybe the occasional bright student will learn something more, but in this particular private school, an ability to read is mandatory before attending first grade. Joanne likes to think that she perfected that particular skill long before she was three, and although this isn't quite the case, Momma and Daddy and Mrs. Thompson let her think that, as long as her reading remains flawless – which, for the most part, it is.

All in all, first grade is a breeze for Joanne. Understanding as she does that one plus one is two, and two plus two is four – all the way up until _five plus five is ten _– she is able to relax most of the time. Or she _would_, if it weren't for the annoying boy who sits next to her. His name is Billy, and his most noteworthy physical characteristics are wicked blue eyes, a fiendish smile, extraordinarily pale skin, and long, loose limbs that flop around when he plays dodgeball at recess. As for the traits that Joanne sees in him, he is constantly humming some song or another, his sleeves are always rolled up – which is, by the way, against the school dress code – and he takes a twisted pleasure in leaning over and ruining whatever assignment Joanne is working on.

After about a month of complaining about Billy, Joanne's prayers seem to be answered. Momma, Daddy, Mrs. Thompson, Joanne, Billy, and Billy's parents sit together in the first grade classroom, with Joanne and Billy playing with the indoor-recess toys while their parents talk. Joanne catches a few snippets of the conversation, and when Billy's parents are asked to briefly leave the room, Momma and Daddy and the dark-skinned Mrs. Thompson urgently whisper about racism. Later, Joanne asks Momma what _racism _means, and Momma tells her in a mournful tone, "Hopefully something you'll never have to deal with," before kissing her daughter on the forehead and wishing her a good night's sleep.

-------

Joanne is seven.

She steadily becomes surrounded by competition. In school, rivalry is almost encouraged – between the grades, between each homeroom class in a grade, between the intelligence levels (feigned by the administration to have no impact on one's class placement), between the three school "houses," named after the school founders, and so on. At home, Joanne is pressured by Momma and Daddy to do better in school, so that she can get into a good college – eleven years from the present, but still considered to be a "big deal." After all, Momma and Daddy say, no university is going to want to accept someone who didn't get all A's in second grade. This causes Joanne to pale and return to her homework, perfecting her penmanship, spelling, and grammar.

When Adelaide's painting of "peace on Earth" is accepted into the finals of the seven-and-eight-year-old category of an artwork contest, Joanne watches carefully. From what she hears of the competition, the assignment was to use one's preferred kind of artwork – paints, crayons, pastels, markers, and so on – to illustrate one's "greatest wish." Having known for a long time that Adelaide and her family are deeply interested in world peace, Joanne is not surprised, but is greatly impressed by the extent of her friend's artwork abilities. When she herself attempts to make a painting for a contest, she receives a letter congratulating her on having tried, but even at seven, she is not fooled into thinking that that in any way resembles acceptance into the competition's higher levels.

Joanne desperately searches for something at which she can excel, and finds it in her nearly-flawless grades in school. It seems unimportant – like something that people tend not to care about – but then remembers that the only grown-ups she knows that care about _art _are Adelaide's parents, so she decides that fine art probably is looked down upon in the adult world much more than academic achievement is. She suggests this to her parents, and they nod, telling Joanne that the only way she will succeed as a grown-up is if she gets good grades. Joanne takes these words to heart, knowing and repeating to herself that only the best rise to the top. She sets her paint sets from years prior aside and begins to focus on what she is taught "really matters."

--------

Joanne is eight.

It comes as a surprise to Joanne to find that people change, and in third grade now, she reflects on the classmates she's known since kindergarten and reviews the many personality traits they once had that are now completely different. The only time this seems not to apply is in Adelaide's case, because the occasionally stubborn, always free-thinking individual hasn't changed a bit since Joanne first met her. Others, however, _have_ – such as the students in her class, conditioned to think as a pack but rarely managing to do so.

Before turning her attention to other students who have changed – Billy, for example, once obnoxious but now funny and friendly and one of Joanne's acquaintances – Joanne thinks of herself. She knows that she has changed over the years, but cannot think of in what respects. Maybe one altered feature of her personality is that she is no longer as co-dependent on Adelaide as she once was. Joanne struggles now to be her own person, but as a third-grader in a private school with expectant parents, she wonders how this could possibly be. Then there is the fact that she was once afraid of irrational things – the dark, for example, and strangers – but now she feels that she could not possibly be harmed by them.

Joanne is now old enough and observant enough to recognize what personality traits will clash with others – for example, she knows better than to introduce the stubborn Adelaide to equally stubborn Billy, because the two think differently but each refuses to adapt to another person's ideas. She applies this to other situations as well – she knows that her adoring first-grade teacher Mrs. Thompson would not get along well with third-graders, because Mrs. Thompson's teaching philosophy relies on the children not knowing much else other than what they are being taught. Joanne turns to herself yet again, wondering if she fits into the philosophy that third-grade teacher Mr. Anderson seems to use – that students yearn to know more above all things. Joanne wonders if this is even the case for her, or if she craves something else above even that. Certainly more than she craves knowledge, Joanne craves acceptance, and wonders when _that _gift-wrapped delight will come hurtling her way, and if it will hurt when it slams into her arms.

---------

Joanne is nine.

While assured by Adelaide that in public schools, such things do not happen, Joanne's school is hosting a dance for the fourth- and fifth-graders. "The boys," Daddy tells her solemnly, "have to ask the girls. That's how it works." So Joanne impatiently taps her foot on the floor while this is discussed during recess, hoping that someone – a particular boy whose name starts with B and ends with I-L-L-Y – will ask her to the dance. In first grade, she recalls, Billy was an obnoxious jerk, but now all she knows about his current personality is that he is funny, one of Joanne's good friends, and good-looking. These, she decides, are good enough qualities to find in a guy before wanting to go on a date with him.

As steadily more and more people are "taken" for the dance, Joanne decides to take matters into her own hands. (After consulting with Momma, it is deemed acceptable for a nine-year-old girl to ask her classmate to attend a school dance with her.) She approaches Billy one morning and, wringing her hands, calmly asks him what he is doing on the night of the dance. When Billy pauses before answering, Joanne hastily cuts in, "I was just wondering if you'd like to go with me."

His once-evil smile now turns sweet, and he nods in agreement. "I'd love to," he replies, and Joanne waits for the catch – but there isn't one.

The night of the dance rolls around soon enough, and Joanne finds herself chatting with her bright, friendly, entertaining classmate, whose floppy brown hair keeps falling into his eyes and making him look even cuter than he already does. At the end of the night, when Momma and Daddy pick Joanne up from the school, Joanne offers to give Billy a ride home, which he accepts. Using all her knowledge of movies and popular culture, Joanne escorts the boy to his doorstep and informs him that she had a really great night. Billy nods and echoes her sentiments, and just as the porch light flickers on, Joanne closes her eyes in anticipation of a kiss. When she opens them about a minute later after feeling nothing, Billy is gone and Joanne's lips are still puckered in front of her. The front door is closed, the hallway lights on, and Momma and Daddy are waiting in the car.

----------

Joanne is ten.

When she arrives home from school one day, she finds Momma's car in the driveway and the lights turned on inside. This is startling – the only person at home during weekdays between the hours of eight and four is the cleaning lady, but she usually leaves by one, at the latest – long before Joanne's school lets out. Plus, Momma is usually at work from seven until five, if not later, but Joanne can clearly see her silhouette in an upstairs window. Alarmed, the ten-year-old runs into the house, backpack and jacket dangling from her shoulders as she runs. When she comes to a stop in Momma's room, she finds Momma on the phone, leaning against the head of the bed.

The first few things Joanne notices that are odd about Momma is that, for one thing, she is in her "home" clothes rather than the suits she usually wears to work. She has her makeup off – or smeared, maybe, because there are black lines running down her face. Her hair, usually in a tight something-or-other, is now bunched up at her neck and shoulders, tangled. "Hi, Joanne," she croaks, and Joanne goes to sit beside her, asking what's wrong. After much persuasion, Momma finally tells Joanne what happened – she was visiting a juvenile client in a detention center in a bad neighborhood, and when she left, discovered that spray-painted on her car hood was a particularly vulgar racist derogatory term.

Joanne rubs circles on Momma's back, not knowing what else to do. "They don't know you," she assures Momma. "They don't know who you are on the inside. They just know you're black." Never particularly good at comforting, she does her best, and thinks that maybe it's enough – Momma breaks into a small smile, thanks her daughter, and promises that she will do all she can to keep Joanne from being exposed to so cruel a world. Joanne shakes her head. "I'm going to have to face it someday," she points out. "Sheltering me isn't going to change that."

-----------

Joanne is eleven.

After receiving a D-minus on a partnered project for which Joanne worked with an irresponsible boy-creature named Robert, she decides to give up boys altogether. This is not simply meant in a romantic sense, nor a friendly sense – she simply no longer wants anything to do with individuals of the masculine sex. The two exceptions are Daddy and Billy, both of whom are nice and intelligent enough to understand how to behave around other people, and that it isn't normal to just laze around eating popcorn while the person with whom you are sharing responsibility for something has to do _all _the work. Or if it is normal, it certainly isn't right.

Girls, Joanne decides, make much more sense. They are predictable – it is always clear how girls will react to certain situations. With boys, it is quite the opposite: some of them react calmly, some aggressively, some indifferently, and still others with a confusing sort of smugness that makes Joanne want to smack them. With Daddy, it is the first and with Billy the fourth, but individuals who react in the second or third category are simply intolerable.

Another problem with boys is that they are simply _stupid_. Girls, on the other hand, understand things. They know what they are talking about – for the most part – and stick to their convictions. Unlike boys, that is, whose opinions change whenever it suits them and sometimes when it doesn't.

Yet another problem with boys, Joanne finds, is that they are simply not attractive. But when she considers this more carefully and realizes that so many girls she knows _do _find boys attractive, she wonders if perhaps the problem is not with boys – but with herself.

It is not until years later when Joanne realizes that this is hardly a problem at all, save for in the eyes of those that are intolerant, prejudiced, or heterosexual males with feelings for a lesbian.

------------

Joanne is twelve.

In a private school where nearly everyone is white, overachieving, and bubbly, Joanne has always felt slightly out-of-place. Although certain people make a real effort to include her and make her seem like part of the community, she knows better than to think that it is really her place, among them. Besides, it is hard to take their offers as genuine, the friendship offerings of the girls that Joanne _knows _give her strange looks as she walks by.

Longing to be accepted but unwilling to alter her personality, Joanne tries everything she can. She joins after-school clubs and activities, such as choir – at which she excels, by the way, but is shunned for her skin and for her voice, the latter of which is far better than her classmates' and certainly very different. She joins the debate team, and although she does well in that area too, it is hard to show how prevalent she is when her teammates make a point of "going easy on her."

Her last valiant attempt is, thinking of Adelaide, to join the art club. Although Joanne has little to no skill whatsoever when it comes to art, she does enjoy looking at it and trying to decipher what different pieces may mean. So one day after school, she slowly enters the art room. She first discovers that the students' hands are covered with multicolored markings, and the teacher's frizzy hair is flecked with rainbow – much like Adelaide's. Joanne feels a pang of wishing Adelaide were here before slowly mumbling, "I'm not so good at this."

"That's perfectly all right," states the teacher, and without an ounce of trepidation, Joanne sets pastel to paper and begins what later vaguely resembles a masterpiece.

-------------

Joanne is thirteen.

Billy, still among Joanne's closest friends, shyly extends an envelope to her. When Joanne quizzically slits the envelope open, Billy explains, "It's my Bar Mitzvah. I wanted you to come." Joanne, who of course knows what a Bar Mitzvah is but never imagined that she would be invited to one, immediately checks the box labeled "yes" on the repondez, s'il vous plait (R.S.V.P.) card. She offers her thanks and congratulations to Billy, who blushes and mutters that he isn't halfway done with his studies yet. Joanne checks the date of the occasion on the card – November the eleventh – and playfully tells her friend that he'd better get working. With an equally playful swat on Joanne's shoulder, Billy walks back over to his other friends, leaving Joanne to stare at the card in awe.

When the eleventh rolls around, Joanne – in a sleeveless silver dress and the Mary Janes she is still obligated to wear for school – is surprised to find that Billy's party has a "guest of honor" – apart from Billy himself, that is. In fact, she finds him kissing this "guest of honor," and when she goes to investigate more closely, a tumble of red curls over a rainbow dress reveals the girl's identity. "_Adelaide_?" Joanne asks in bewilderment. An almost-abashed (but still glowing) Billy pokes his head out from against the wall and grins at Joanne.

"You know her?" he asks, obviously amused. Joanne, instead of answering, pulls Adelaide away from Billy and prepares to deliver a speech on not being flighty, when Adelaide insists that Joanne needs to calm down and stop being so "anal retentive." Joanne's hand quivers, ready to slap her friend, when a slow song comes on and Billy smiles shyly and asks if it would calm Joanne down to dance with him. She agrees, as casually as can, and allows Billy to usher her onto the dance floor.

By the end of the evening, however, though she and Billy and Adelaide are all friends again, Joanne knows that what she wants with Billy is nothing more than friendship. In fact, that may be the case with all boys, she realizes with a jolt – she is far more entertained with catching a glimpse of Adelaide's vertically-slipping dress than eyeing, as Adelaide does, the triangle in the upper center of Billy's pants.

--------------

Joanne is fourteen.

A favorite holiday of Joanne's that isn't even really a holiday is the nationally acclaimed "Take Your Child To Work Day." For the Jeffersons, it is simply a matter of deciding which parent should take Joanne, and, knowing as she does that she went to work with paperwork-specialist Momma the year before, chooses to go to work on this particular year with Daddy – who has a trial scheduled for that very day. She has never seen a trial before, and with her notebook poised on her lap, Joanne watches.

Daddy is representing a clean-cut suburban woman who claims that her neighbors constantly "disturb the peace" by throwing loud drinking parties. But according to investigation, the parties are completely drug-free and exclusive of minors – thus giving this woman less of a case. Although loud music is audible from the parties, they take place only on occasions where _everyone _is loud – Christmas Eve, for example, and New Year's Eve. Joanne watches carefully as the red-faced woman sputters her case, with Daddy shaking his head in almost-amusement.

Joanne does not expect Daddy to win the case. When she hears the defendants' side of the story, she is even more cemented in her belief that Daddy will lose. For one thing, the defendants are much more reasonable than the plaintiff is, and for another, one member of their group – Cassandra Dopfrey – is, by Joanne's standards, _utterly gorgeous_. Considering, however, that the latter reason holds no meaning in a fair trial (if there is such a thing), Joanne also takes into account the fact that truthfully, there's nothing wrong with having a drinking party on Christmas or New Year's Eve. Is there?

Joanne chalks it up to a suburban justice system when the plaintiff wins the case, and she quietly mumbles something about unfairness before following Daddy into the car and back home. When he asks her what she thought of the trial, Joanne replies that he did a good job, but that's it.

Daddy watches Joanne's retreating back as she ascends the stairs, wondering quite how his daughter will turn out. On second thought, he thinks to himself, it's probably better not to know until the time comes. He has his guesses, however, and is not at all surprised when Joanne proposes that they have a Christmas Eve party.

---------------

Joanne is fifteen.

She has always hated gym, communal locker rooms, and the way sweat sliding off one's body after gym class always makes people double-take at certain _girls _– even when one is a girl herself – and find them attractive. In this case, Joanne cannot staring at a certain girl who goes by the name of Monique, her skin the same color as Joanne's own, stringy dark hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head. A loner like Joanne herself, Monique has few friends, and so Joanne decides that it is much less risky to stare at Monique than the other, equally beautiful, alternative – the highly popular Lea, whose olive skin twinkles just the same way.

Overcome by her attraction to Monique, Joanne loses control for the first time in her life and plants a kiss right on Monique's lips.

The reaction is immediate: Monique, who is obviously not interested in Joanne, pushes the other girl away and dashes across the room, shrieking about freaks and immoral behavior. Moments later, an isolated Joanne is surrounded by the gym teacher and a still-trembling Monique, acting as though she is afraid that Joanne might spring some sort of lesbianism on her.

Later, Joanne sits in her room, waiting for Momma and Daddy to come home so she can hear what they have to say. But then, she tells herself, she was promised once, by Momma and Daddy, that they would stand by her whatever path in life she decided to take. Even if they don't, she knows that there is nothing they can do, even if they _wanted _to change this about their daughter – and Joanne can hardly see them wanting her to change. She is, after all, their child. The least they can do, if not support her, is to accept her for who and what she is.

----------------

Joanne is sixteen.

After having kept her "queer" thoughts and desires to herself for so long, Joanne feels amazingly free. She no longer has to obsess over changing the location of the key to her journal twice a day, for one thing, and she feels that now she is officially permissible to stare at girls for exactly the length of time that most girls stare at boys – before, that is, abashedly blushing and looking away. Joanne doesn't exactly blush, per se, but she does close her eyes briefly and demand of herself how she could have been so stupid to get caught staring. But above all, Joanne's favorite thing about being "out" is that she can now officially discuss with Billy the different people she thinks are "cute." It is without question her favorite activity in the world.

Second to staring at girls and discussing them with Billy comes another activity Joanne loves – traveling. Fortunately for her, Momma and Daddy decide to reward their daughter's remarkable efforts in school with a trip to the city of her choice. Joanne selects New York, because she has always wanted to go there, and chips in some money to allow Billy to come as well. (Joanne delightedly later confides in Billy that it would have been impossible to chip in _any _amount of money for Adelaide to come, considering her lesbianism, and wonders if she should point this out to certain heterosexual girls looking for a way to get their boyfriends to come along on vacation. Billy then points out that the fact that Joanne is a lesbian doesn't make him gay, and nothing prevents him from springing a kiss on her at any moment. "Except," Joanne chides to him, "manners and common sense.")

On the trip, Joanne spends more time with Billy than she does with anyone else. While Momma and Daddy explore museums on the Upper West Side, she and her friend take voyages into the West Village, also known as Greenwich Village – the land of funky bookstores, chic mini-shops, and, of course, the famed Christopher Street. That happens to be where Joanne and Billy spend most of their time – perusing Christopher Street, the most famous gay neighborhood in the country. Billy informs his friend that she is the only person in the_ world _who could get him to do such a thing, and Joanne points out that it's probably because she's his only female friend, and had he taken a _male _friend along, people of Christopher Street would get an entirely wrong idea.

With a "one hour warning" before Billy and the Jeffersons are set to take their train back home, the two teenagers make a last-minute voyage to the East Village. Like the West Village, it is known as a "funky" mini-city of Manhattan, and as they try to take in the pure and true bohemia in the last five minutes they have to spare, Joanne groans loudly and says that this being the place with the most culture in all city – from what she has seen, anyway – it is tremendously unfair that she has to leave so "early."

"Maybe you'll come back someday," Billy tells her, and with that, they depart.


	4. Roger

---

Roger is three.

He wakes up sometimes to find green eyes staring at him, the exact color of his own. Right after waking up and still groggy, he wonders if it is, in fact, himself looking down at himself. Then he shakes his head and realizes that it's Mom, checking to see if he's sleeping. Silly of her to do so, Roger thinks to himself, when her very presence wakes him up. It's not Mom's fault, though, he tells himself, because probably anyone else would wake him up by standing over him and breathing loudly and just interfering with his dreams.

When Roger dreams, he imagines himself in a big house, with big, fluffy beds and steady furniture and a Dad with a tie made of pretty colors and soft material. When he wakes up, he is in the same trailer that has always been his home, just him and Mom with nowhere to look but at the life ahead of him. Mom says this sometimes, that there's nowhere to look but up, and Roger stares at his feet and tells her that he has no idea what she is talking about. That's when Mom flushes and goes back to her little room and talks to people on the phone. When she does that, Roger curls back up in his ratty bed and pretends he's back in his dreams.

Once, he asks Mom if dreaming for something can make it happen – just so Roger can know what the stakes are like. When he asks, a flicker of something flashes across Mom's face, so fast that Roger misses it, before she calmly answers that anyone can do anything, anyone can be successful and have a happy life and find perfect love, if only they want it enough. Just as Roger prepares to ask another question, Mom tells him to go back to dreaming of whatever future he wants, because she's going back to sleep. Instead of dreaming, Roger wonders why he and his mother's hope for a big house hasn't made it happen already. Or maybe, he thinks, he just isn't trying hard enough.

----

Roger is four.

Four means that he's a big boy, right? That's what Mom says at three-thirty in the morning as she and Roger strip the sheets off Roger's bed. Roger doesn't know. Every child, he knows, likes to _say _that he or she is a big kid, but being big scares Roger. He doesn't want to be a grown-up like Mom without anyone to play with or talk to. At four, Roger isn't such a big fan of playing or talking, but he's sure that grown-ups like Mom are. He wonders what he could do that would make people like him better, and the answer is obvious.

Mission "Dry-Night," as Mom calls it, should by all means be a success. Roger has strong will, determination, and not enough water during the day to even really _need _the nighttime bathroom break. The only reason he ordinarily finds himself in a wet bed is because his dreams are so fiercely intense that he cannot wake up from them in the middle of the night for something as silly as _peeing_. (The worst part about this is that as soon as whatever dream he is having _ends_, Roger's eyes flutter open and he realizes that he is just finishing up the job he should've been doing in the bathroom.) So with his eyes on the prize, Roger goes to bed one night immediately after using the bathroom, having had very little fluids during the day, and expects to wake up dry – for once.

At first, he cannot fall asleep. His eyes gaze into the ceiling, cracked and flawed and _interesting_. Then, after a little while, Roger's eyes droop shut, eliminating the last source of color from the dark room, and he falls asleep.

Six hours later, a delighted mother creeps into the room to see how her son is faring, and cannot keep herself from revealing a soft smile. Roger, so determined not to wet the bed again, has his legs squeezed over one another tightly, trying to keep himself from letting go. Feeling utter compassion for her child, Mom shakes Roger awake and escorts him to the bathroom.

Never again does a drop of urine touch Roger's bedsheets.

-----

Roger is five.

Shoved into a tiny room with a bunch of little brats who pick their noses – a habit of which Roger insists he has relieved himself long ago – is not Roger's ideal way to spend a day. He always suspected that Mom's threats to send him to some dreaded place called _school _were, in fact, all talk, but it seems that he was wrong. In fact, according to the lady with gray hair and long earrings – who obviously has not yet learned of children's desire to pull shiny things attached to people's heads – it is unlikely that Roger will escape this torture for quite some time. She tells him that he has thirteen years left, and Roger, who cannot yet count up to thirteen, simply knows that if he is five years old, he probably has quite a while left.

In the cramped classroom, Roger has little to do but sit and sulk. A bright-eyed boy with glasses asks Roger if he would like to play with him, but Roger merely growls menacingly and manages to scare the other boy into leaving – exactly his intention. When the boy leaves, however, he takes the toy trucks with him, and Roger had wanted to play with those. It isn't worth socializing to get them back, though, so he continues his sulking.

Cookies are distributed. Roger, whose mother has never quite managed to afford cookies, shies away with the air of a five-year-old placed in front of spinach. Then again, Roger has no prior knowledge to assure him that cookies _aren't _spinach, so when the mean teacher approaches him and offers one to him, Roger makes his "icky" face and turns away. It isn't long, however, before the cookie is snatched away by a tiny girl in an equally small skirt. Roger looks at her and makes brief eye contact with her before turning the "icky" face on her as well.

------

Roger is six.

Perhaps prematurely, he develops a defiant streak. When, after a bad day, Mom goes to stroke Roger's hair and sing him a lullaby, angry little Roger rolls over in bed and glares at the pillow. He refuses to speak when he is angry, and even when he wants to talk, he keeps it to himself or occasionally scrawls something illegibly in his notebook. His messy handwriting is something that earns him many a berating in school, where he is supposed to be learning how to write the letters. Roger is long past the stage of learning letters – at six, he is already experiment with rhymes. _I hate you, Mom, I hate you, Dad. / You make me really, really mad_.

Mom maybe looks at Roger's rhymes sometimes, when he isn't careful and leaves his notebook on the kitchen table. He can tell she doesn't like them, because sometimes pages are torn out and reappear beneath the notebook days later, looking innocently up at Roger as though protesting, _I was here all along. _When these things happen, Roger crumples up the papers and reopens them, looking at the smudged graphite and wondering if that's all his words boil down to.

One day just after Roger's half-birthday, he is taken by Mom to a big, shiny building that took forever to drive to. He looks up just outside of it and wrinkles his nose, hating it already for its shininess and the fake smiles of people looking out windows. When he is escorted inside and up a flight of stairs by Mom and a lady with yellow hair, Roger frowns. He can tell this will not be a fun day.

When he is seated in a chair too tall for him, his legs kicking back and forth, Roger is made to answer endless questions, very easy ones like what his name is and whether he is a boy or a girl and things like that. After just about a million forevers of this, Roger crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to speak anymore. "Anger management," or something like it, is what he hears from the strange woman as he jumps down from his chair and storms out. He stomps down the stairs and finally comes to a stop just outside the building, where he sits under the awning and makes up rhymes about why he doesn't like stupid buildings in the city, even if sometimes they're pretty. The ones that aren't as sparkly hold more appeal to him, but that is something he doesn't realize until years later, when, on a budget, he seeks somewhere to live.

-------

Roger is seven.

Second grade is overrated, so sometimes he decides not to go. It is a perfectly simple decision and, unable to believe that nobody has thought of it before, Roger finds himself _not _going more than he _does _go. He lurks behind his school, curled up in a winter coat Mom got cheap – or free – at someone's yard sale. (In Roger's neighborhood, a yard sale is the equivalent of throwing things outside, in front of the trailer. Although it relies on the honor system – people placing the appropriate sum of money where the items initially were – it works strangely well. The one exception is when it comes to the Davis family. When it comes to Roger, Mom is too caught up in buying everything the boy needs to actually think about paying for it.)

Hiding, or lurking, or whatever it is Roger does behind the school, he gazes past the schoolyard and watches high-schoolers doing much the same thing he is doing, but with odd rolls of paper clasped between their lips. Roger recognizes these things, sees them scattered around the trailer all the time, but isn't entirely sure what they _are_. Mom says not to worry about it and never to use them, but Roger just shuffles away to work on his rhymes. He isn't the best conversationalist – even Roger himself will admit that.

This behind-the-school rebellion is brief. After what feels like "ten forevers," still Roger's favorite measurement of time – a "forever" having no set value, but changing in "real-time" length depending on whether or not he is enjoying himself – he is sent home from school one day with an envelope in his sweaty palms. Roger is not yet conditioned to read Mom's mail, and so does not even consider slitting the envelope to read his teacher's message. When he is thrown over Mom's lap as she tells him to never skip class, Roger wonders if perhaps he should have torn it to shreds. What's done is done, however, and Roger resolves to conceal future problems the way he didn't quite manage to hide this one.

--------

Roger is eight.

One day he asks Mom why he doesn't have a dad. Roger considers this a valid question; everyone he knows from school has a father, and as far as Roger knows, he hasn't done anything to make himself _not _deserve one. Mom, inhaling deeply on the cigarette in her mouth, calmly tells Roger that his lack of a father can be accredited to the fact that "a certain _Roy Davis _is an asshole and doesn't deserve to fucking live." She then adds, "Roger, if you ever have kids, don't just fucking _leave _them – be a dad, okay?"

Roger, who cannot imagine having kids if it would put him in his mother's situation, tells his mother flatly that he would never want them. Mom looks at him in confusion for a moment before turning away to do other things, and Roger sits in silence. What _does _he want, in terms of a family? Well, he's always wanted a brother. From what he knows, however, he deduces that brothers _probably _aren't things that a boy can acquire later in life, and Mom agrees – apparantly, one needs a dad in order to have kids. That sucks, according to Roger.

Maybe friends can be a family. Maybe Roger could grow up to live with friends instead. He needs friends, though, and doesn't know how to get them without being social. And Roger _hates _being social. Maybe he can get friends without being nice. Or maybe friends just come along when you're a grown-up, and you don't need to do any work. Roger decides that's the answer he likes best, so he happily curls up in his blankets and goes to sleep. Problem solved. Or rather, problem eliminated the moment Roger manages to find a decent way to hide it.

---------

Roger is nine.

Following his mother's usual policy of "don't pay for anything unless there's a price sticker on it," Roger casually snatches a bicycle from just outside the school. He figures it's the fault of the bike's owner for not locking it, and probably also the fault of the school for not having some kind of rule about not accessing the wall that serves as everyone's bicycle rack unless you actually have a bike there. So it's not _Roger's _fault he takes it; no, it is by all means the fault of the shrimpy blond kid who watches him in horror as Roger pedals away.

Roger recognizes the kid from his class – he thinks his name is Mark, or Mike, or something. He's a fairly decent writer, though not as good as Roger, and has managed to procure a spot on the list of the top three students in the class, along with Roger and some Jewish girl with stringy brown hair and a star necklace. Roger isn't so good at learning names, but he knows that Mark or Mike or whatever his name is probably doesn't need the bike, since his family's rich – proof? Mark's oft-replaced glasses whenever they break in class, which is a frequent occurrence – whereas Roger would really appreciate having something to speed up the hour-long walk home from school. Buses aren't too fond of taking kids to trailer parks, so Roger has to walk. And now, he has the bike.

When he gets it home, the last thing Roger expects is to be chided by his mother. By some bizarre twist of fate, however, just as Roger carefully leans the bike against the half-wall separating the living room area from the kitchen, Mom pokes her head out and asks him exactly where the fuck he got the bike. Roger explains that he took it from the school, and Mom, with a deep sigh, tells Roger that if he's going to be a delinquent, he'd better not get caught, because she "sure as hell can't afford bail." Roger mumbles something in acquiescence before slipping into his room and, as per usual, working on his rhymes.

As a matter of fact, he suspects that no matter what is going on in his life – be it a stolen bicycle, newly in his possession (just as long as he doesn't get it noticed at school), or troubles at school, or just about _anything _– rhymes are always where Roger will return. And strangely enough, the mini-prophecy of a nine-year-old turns out to be absolutely right.

----------

Roger is ten.

For a ten-year-old, he knows a surprising amount about the world. For example, just about a week after his birthday, Roger comprehends at last what he couldn't quite understand at three: the fact that things are never going to be the perfect fairy-tale he wanted them to be, and any complaints about this would be officially classified as whining. He does not share this observation with Mom, because he's still praying that it isn't true, but just in case it is, he takes all of his questions about _why _this and _why _that into his notebook, rhyming them and making them sound pretty.

It's called songwriting, Mom tells Roger – carrying one's emotions into a notebook, and then singing them, is called songwriting. Of course, the ten-year-old has heard music before, but never quite made the connection between _his _music and just _music_. When he realizes that what he does is the same as what people on the radio do, he tells Mom solemnly that he doesn't want to write stupid songs like they do, he wants to be different and unique and remarkable. Mom kisses Roger's forehead and tells him not to worry – he will be. And yet, his worries continue to plague him.

Every young artist, whether or not he is aware of his status as an artist yet, will at some point experience this fear. At some point, every creator will wonder: _Am I the real thing? Or just a cheap imitation? _When these thoughts haunt Roger, his eyes lose their sparkle and his rhymes deteriorate. He sometimes finds himself well on his way to a masterpiece when suddenly he is reminded of his fear, and he will resort back to music with poor quality. It terrifies him beyond belief, and the only cure for it is reminding himself that, well, he's never heard a ten-year-old on the radio before. So obviously he has something that other people don't.

Then again, he's never heard _himself _on the radio, either.

-----------

Roger is eleven.

When Roger tears three scrawled-upon pages out of his notebook and waves them in the air frantically, he is not _pleased_. He is _overjoyed_. "Mom! Mom!" he howls, racing into his mother's bedroom to find her lying on her back, leaning up occasionally to take sips of the glass bottle on her nightstand. "Mom, I wrote a _song_!" he exclaims. His mother, not in the least bit startled, takes her time sitting up. When in a fully upright position, Mom gives Roger an expectant look, wordlessly telling him to _go on, then_.

Roger does not hesitate. He opens his mouth and, as Mom predicted when his infantine cries were tolerable and almost _crooning_, out comes a beautiful sound. The boy is clearly destined to sing, and to anyone listening to Roger's beautiful singing, it would be hard at this point to make out any actual lyrics. A few stand out, however: _"Meeting your eyes, I can promise you / No harm will ever make it through / To scratch against and touch your soul / I'll protect you from the pain and cold." _When he finally closes his mouth and lets his too-long hair fall in his face, waiting for a response, he scrunches up his nose. "Did you like it?"

Mom doesn't answer at first. She takes a long sip from her glass bottle and lets Roger have one as well before at last she asks him, "Roger, was that for me?"

Roger nods hesitantly and lets his mother's praise wash over him. Rhyming, he decides, can be frustrating – but obviously immensely rewarding. As soon as Mom tells Roger to go make history with his music, Roger scampers back into his room, props his notebook on his lap, and scratches out a title of his next song. When he looks back on this moment years later, Roger does not remember the title of the song. All he knows is that it had something to do with love – because doesn't everything, after all?

------------

Roger is twelve.

Everything _is _about love. Because sure enough, twelve-year-old Roger finds himself _in _love with a pretty girl, probably about sixteen, whose wild hair and celery-colored eyes can often be found beside a boy just Roger's age. He finds that hopelessly unfair. Boys his age always just _know _that relationships with older girls can never happen, and yet this nerdy kid is always right next to this gorgeous teenager, sometimes even getting picked up from school by her and hopping gleefully into her car. Roger longs to tag along, but knows that there's nothing April Ericcson would see in him anyway, just a twelve-year-old boy who can sort of write songs and lives in a trailer park.

As sorrowful as it is to say, Roger is absolutely correct. Sometimes, inspired by hope, he sidles up to the girl, his hair greased down with water from the bathroom as he tries to imitate "sexy." Wearing a pretend-smile that Roger usually tries to avoid, he greets April. At the very least, he thinks, she'll call him cute. But he does not even manage to achieve even that, because the girl has a deep loathing for people who wear masks – or people whose masks are not securely fastened. April wrinkles her nose and walks off, back to the little kid whose bike Roger stole years ago. With some pleasure at having done that, Roger tells himself that the boy deserved it – although now, in the absence of his bicycle, Mark has the great honor of riding in April's car.

Jealous, Roger writes a little song about why he loathes Mark so much. He performs it outside the school one day after dismissal, watched by a horrified Mark and disgusted April. When he concludes, April storms forward and slaps Roger's cheek. She then gets into her car and speeds away "into the sunset," with an irritated Mark making immature faces at Roger as the car passes by. Roger, feeling hopelessly alone, touches his cheek and realizes two things. One: The song sucked. If April had thought the song was well-written _and _mean, she probably still would have complimented it. Two: He really, _really _likes this girl.

-------------

Roger is thirteen.

Because Roger watches people, he knows the exact date on which April and Mark disappear.

He didn't see the car pull away, didn't hear the screaming of the Ericcsons and the Cohens, and didn't know about it until a day later. But all the same, he knows when it happened, because Mark wasn't in school that day and the next day, his name wasn't even called on the attendance list. Deeply envious and positive, in his thirteen-year-old mind, that they must have left to get married in some weird state that allows that kind of marriage, Roger sulks behind the school that day. Why does _Mark _get April when he – Roger – wants to be with her so badly? It isn't fair.

He turns his attention to the question of why, which is the same reason _anyone _leaves Scarsdale: to have freedom and be one's own person. Of course, none of that ever happens in Scarsdale – in fact, to be exactly geographically correct, Roger doesn't even live in Scarsdale. He lives just past the line separating his home city from the rest of the world, although letters sent to the Davises fo Scarsdale will, in fact, reach him and his mother.

Where did they go? Roger might wonder. Well, there's only one place anyone ever goes after leaving Scarsdale, isn't there? To the city, of course.

It isn't fair. It isn't fair that Manhattan was Roger's dream long before it was Mark and April's reality.

--------------

Roger is fourteen.

He knows he needs money, if he is ever to leave the fake smiles of Scarsdale (or just outside of Scarsdale, as applies to Roger) and get to New York. Now, he writes his songs with a fiery passion, using all the emotions he can muster, fearing that if his songs aren't _real _enough, they won't have any meaning. Again, he is struck by the terrifying fear of being unoriginal, uncreative, or generic. In a flat-out refusal to sing something written by someone else, he twists away from convention during the community talent show and, instead, and sings one of his own songs, "Nowhere's Land," a song about Scarsdale and desperate desire to break free. His standing? Third place. His prize? A measley twenty-five dollars.

Mom apparantly expects to be given Roger's prize money, but with his scorching defiance, Roger refuses, on the grounds that he won it by singing and all Mom ever won was a "fucking one-night stand with a bastard who wouldn't even stick around to tell you his name." For a moment, she looks prepared to slap Roger, but instead she sighs deeply and tells him that he may as well do the same as his father, financially abandoning her until she has naught to her name.

Feeling slightly ashamed, but not enough so to give Mom the money, Roger leans over and kisses her. "Mom," he promises, "when I hit it big, I swear I'll make sure you have a mansion."

The funny thing is that, while Mom does not expect Roger to so much as remember his promise come morning, when he leaves for New York later that same month, he places a crisp ten-dollar bill on the counter for Mom to keep. It isn't much, but ten dollars is, for Roger and his mother, enough for dinner and breakfast the next day. Besides, the fifteen dollars Roger still has to his name is enough to buy him a one-way bus ticket to New York and a cheap notebook, and that's all he needs for now, anyway.

---------------

Roger is fifteen.

After securely finding the official "crappiest part of the city," Roger is hardly surprised to discover a familiar pair of Scarsdale veterans flirting with a pair of bouncers at what is known to be a relatively tame city bar. It isn't particularly difficult to convince them that he's not the asshole Roger they remember, because they're already drunk – Mark more so than April, if Roger's guess is anything to be trusted. When he is invited to their ratty street corner to spend the night, Roger supposes he has no choice, and curls up on the ground.

In the morning, when jade eyes flicker open to meet celery-colored orbs and eyes the color of a suburban sky, April sighs heavily. "Are you gonna behave, Roger?" she asks, sitting up and leaning against a building. Roger's only answer is to smile weakly and nod, and within hours, the three have a loft all lined up. Now all they need is a way to pay the rent, and Roger is fairly certain that New York City talent shows should pay better than Scarsdale ones.

"Nowhere's land," he sings softly to himsef as a sort of lullaby, the first night in his apartment. "I'm living rough in nowhere's land, craving for escape and longing for a break and hoping that someday I'll get out of here and make it. Everyone's so fake, living here in nowhere's land…"


	5. Collins

---

Collins is three.

Actually, he goes by Tom now, as many three-year-old Thomases do. Although Momma, Dad, and older brother James call him Tommy, he decisively refers to himself as Tom Collins. He is doubtlessly the youngest member of the Collins family and also the most outspoken. With an assumed loathing for every article of clothing he owns, Tom can often be found streaking through the house, decked out in his birthday suit as he races around in an attempt to avoid being caught. When at last he is snatched up and forced into boxers, he fixes his captor with a penetrated glare and threatens to kick a certain vital area (or, in his mother's case, pull her earrings) with enough force to make said captor drop Tom's clothing as he flees.

One day, a frustrated James demands of his brother, "_Why _do you hate your clothes so much?" After not a moment's pause, Tom replies that he does not like being tethered and kept down, and by having a zipper on his "privates" and a button on his waist, he is constricted. Exasperated, James tells his brother that there are sweatpants for those kinds of situations, but Tom just shakes his head and says that it isn't the same. "Clearly," James replies dryly, and he escorts Tom to his bed and reads him a condensed version of some classic novel. Although Tom insists that he is not a baby and does not need to be tucked in, James does not hesitate to pull the covers up to Tom's neck and kiss him lightly on the forehead.

Obstinance, it seems, runs in the family, but it is clear that it strikes no one half as much as it does Tom.

----

Collins is four.

Instead of being fed baby food and given toy trucks like a "normal" kid, his parents insist upon giving Tom paint sets and vegan food from ethnic restaurants. He splatters things all over the wall, both paint and soy sauce, and watches his marks without an ounce of remorse. Momma and Dad refuse to clean these stains up, however, just as they did with their older son as he was growing up, and as Momma's mother did for Momma when she was growing up in this very house. It is a mystery to Tom why anybody would _want _to clean up these stains, particularly as they are far more interesting and pretty and transfixing than anything else he has ever seen before. The outside of his house was slate gray years ago, and now it is a rainbow of colors, literally decked out in reds and blues and yellows, pinks, greens, oranges and purples year round.

Art seeps into every second of Tom's life, whether he likes it or not. In Momma's little mini-office in the basement, her sewing covers the entirety of the floor and walls. She makes patchwork quilts; some of them are draped over the walls like tapestries; others can be found strewn over the house's various beds, such as Tom's and James' and Momma and Dad's.

In Momma and Dad's room, Dad is busily at work, sketching the cartoons he does for a local magazine. They tell a weekly-updated story of a pair of brothers (named James and Tom, after the sons of their creator) whose adventures in suburban Illinois never seem to cease in their mania.

Finally, James' room leaks art from underneath the door and the keyhole that is never locked. He sings, strumming on his guitar for his own benefit and that of the rest of his family. Although he has not yet progressed into writing his own songs, James is unquestionably a singer and a guitarist. One day, he promises, he will start with his own music, but a ten-year-old playing cover songs for himself and his family isn't bad.

"You'll be an artist too," James promises his brother. "Maybe a little unconventional in your art, but can you really claim to resist its temptation?"

-----

Collins is five.

Enrolled in his kindergarten class, he comes home from school one day and proclaims that teachers are stupid, and people shouldn't get to be in charge of other people. (A delighted Mrs. Collins embraces Tom, declaring in jubilance that "Oh, my son's an _anarchist_!") Rather than stomping up the stairs and into his room, Tom locates his brother and explains his problem: that his teacher (or as Tom calls her, _meanie_) is enforcing rules that have no purpose. After fawning over his younger brother for about four minutes, James sighs deeply and begins to describe the concept of anarchy, and why many people dislike authority figures. Tom sits smugly as his life's very philosophy is explained to him for the very first time, and when James is finished, Tom springs out of chair and leaps onto his bed.

"I wanna be 'n anarchist!" he exclaims, jumping up and down. James, chuckling, allows his brother to bounce for several minutes before grabbing him around the waist and restoring him to a sitting position on the bed.

"You can," James promises him, "but you have to grow up first. 'Kay? That's the only way people are going to listen to you."

Although Tom loathes that concept right from the start, he grumbles and accepts it as a flaw in society. "_Fine_," he mumbles, and the moment James leaves, Tom scrawls his plans for his future on a scrap piece of paper. Anarchy doesn't sound too hard – just exciting.

------

Collins is six.

Now in first grade, Tom has the honor of bringing home his very first report card. Grades are hardly a cause for concern among the Collinses, since it is a well-known fact that both Tom and James are very intelligent, and that is enough for Momma and Dad. They do not want things for their children like law and medical studies, but rather, things like art and a loving community. And yet, surrounded by the hypercompetitive, eager six-year-olds in his class, Tom is unaware of this. He is convinced that with all "E's" – the highest achievement possible in grade one – he will have perfection at home, but with a single less-than-E, Momma and Dad will not like him anymore. (To hear his classmates tell it, that would seem like exactly the case in every household in town.)

In James' room, the two boys slit the report card envelope and glance at its contents. (Struck by drama, Tom hides his head in his brother's blankets, awaiting news. He pokes his head up when informed by his brother that the sheets haven't been washed since who-knows-when.) Scanning the report of his progress, Tom sees several things: one, that his only academic failing (non-E, in this case) lies in the subject of math; two, that his teacher left additional comments on the bottom of the page.

"While I can see that Tom is obviously gifted in terms of academics," James reads aloud, "his social skills remain positively nonexistent." To his brother, he offers a condensed version, but Tom proves his intelligence by condensing it on his own – demonstrating that he already understands his teacher's comments. He then asks James exactly why he is deemed socially inept, and James merely replies, "It's not because you are, Tommy, I promise." After a brief pause, he sighs and explains, "It's because stereotypically, you ought to be."

A discussion about stereotypes follows, and Tom merely crosses his arms over his chest and points out, "But that doesn't mean Ican't make friends. It just means that she doesn't know me."

-------

Collins is seven.

Second grade at Fernwood Elementary School entails "Hero Day," a day on which students bring in their personal role models – usually family members or close friends of a higher grade – and speak about them, giving them awards and taking pictures. Momma, who was James' hero on his second-grade celebration, expects to be chosen again, while Dad is fairly certain that it ought to be his turn now. Tom surprises them both by selecting James, playing with his brother's dreadlocks while awaiting James' acceptance of this (dubious) honor.

Momma and Dad both pretend that they are unfazed by this, but both seem deeply disappointed while driving their two sons to the elementary school and promising to return at three. Tom's wide smile seems completely ignorant to his parents' unhappiness, as does James', but when they enter the building, both sigh in relief at being released from the tension. From there, Tom and James skip to the younger's classroom and settle down for an afternoon of being hounded by little blond children who want to touch James' hair and are forced to ask permission from Tom first, then James.

When Tom reads his speech about why James is his hero, nobody tears up or cries or smiles sadly. It is a simple matter of his singing a song he heard coming from James' room one night. He previously asked his teacher for permission to write a song rather than a speech, and when denied, chose to do it anyway. The lyrics reworked and the tune kept the same, Tom now stands before his brother and releases the words he wishes to share. Why are they in song form? Simply because that is the language James speaks best, and if Tom knows one tidbit of wisdom about the world at his ripe age of seven, it is that one will always benefit most greatly from speaking a person's language to him or her, rather than one's own.

--------

Collins is eight.

Despite his loathing of teachers and the fact that it is by all means mutual, Tom cannot help but want to be a teacher when he grows up. It is a fact poorly received by Momma and Dad, conditioned to hate authority figures since birth. Having been hippies during adolescence and rebels as well, they can hardly bring themselves to understand a child who is perfectly rebellious and independent, yet with an apparent desire to be a figure of authority. "We," says Dad, "have no desire to raise a hypocrite."

Yet, this is accepted perfectly well by James, who does not think it is at all hypocritical for his brother to hate teachers and want to be one. "You're not a hypocrite," he promises his brother, "just unique and smart." He then goes on to explain that for Tom to want to be a teacher, it means that he wants to improve teachers – he wants to be a better teacher than any that he has ever seen.

Tom understands, and agrees.

---------

Collins is nine.

He slowly develops a smug streak, proud to know the answers to just about every question asked by his teacher. He flaunts his intelligence, not quite so much as _some _of his classmates, but still enough so that everyone registers Tom Collins as the Boy Who Knows All, like how to get straight hundreds on tests and pop quizzes and the like. It isn't achieved through stealing answer keys and memorizing patterns, but simply because he is smart and likes to show off.

Tom, being the curious boy he is, wonders if praise stems from outstanding performance or simply the fact that people are so _used _to delivering praise that it becomes a pattern. Wanting to prove this one way or another, Tom deliberately answers every question wrong on the end-of-year test given by his teacher. The enormous "zero" on top of the test is hardly surprising to James, who expected something like this from his experimental little brother, and is, as promised, a shock to Momma and Dad. But considering that they don't really care about their son's grades as long as he's into art, there is no negative reaction apart from the ruffling of Tom's hair and a "Just _try_, kid" from James.

----------

Collins is ten.

Although he comes from a family of vegetarians (and, in the case of his brother, one vegan), he is still occasionally forced to dine with omnivores. In such cases, Tom merely grits his teeth and swallows whatever vile meat product is forced his way. He never eats meat at home, and so he is not exactly a vegetarian by choice, but by lack of available options. So officially, Tom is a meat-eater. James, Momma, and Dad are of the opinion that by age ten, he should make a decision – to eat meat or not to do so.

Tom, who is usually quite decisive, runs into difficulty when making this decision. Of course, he deeply sympathizes towards the animals murdered for food, but one would argue that leather presents the same situation, and Tom has always worn leather shoes and cannot imagine stopping. Do people even _make _non-leather shoes? And besides, many dining crises would arise from being a flat-out vegetarian. He does not even begin to consider the health problems of vegetarianism, because his entire family is perfectly fit and healthy and there is no real handicap in that respect.

In the end, it boils down to whether or not he would _enjoy _vegetarian food, and there is only one way to find out. Tom sits blindfolded in the kitchen while James cooks. ("There is nobody else in the world," he assures Tom, "for whom I would cook a meat product." And it's true; Momma and Dad had a problem with meat being brought into the house, even despite James' assurances that it'd be in and out, and a playful promise that Tom would use a neighbor's bathroom directly after eating.)

Two pots are smacked against the kitchen table, and Tom is handed a wooden spoon and a napkin. "Try one from each pot," James instructs his brother, and so he does. With the spoon, Tom scoops up what is either a meatball or a meatless ball and puts it into his mouth, and upon giving James double thumbs-up, Tom Collins becomes a vegetarian.

-----------

Collins is eleven.

After nine and a half agonizing months of Tom hearing his mother howl "Pickles! Olives! And _don't forget the tomato paste!"_, Momma returns from several days at the hospital with a child cradled in her arms. After close inspection, Tom decides that the child is a girl, and a very sensitive one at that. She squirms and squeals and cries, and when she is given anything other than breast milk, her howls are audible throughout the neighborhood. According to Momma and the extremely disgruntled other half to her twosome (which is now, including the rest of the Collinses, a fivesome), Dad, the baby's name is Rhondia.

Tom thinks that this is a completely stupid name, which gets him thinking about other names. James' name is fine enough – it sums him up in its faux-uniqueness that is really not all that hard to find if you look hard enough for it. And this baby, whose name is Rhondia, has a hideous name that seems to suggest that she has no control over herself – which, for the most part, she _doesn't_. Since Momma and Dad gave this child a name that is so obviously not her own choosing, Rhondia's name and lack of control over her diaper changes and the like seem to match up well enough.

Tom thinks his own name is too ordinary for him, too clean-cut and suburban. True, he is suburban when it boils down to that, but that's what he wants to change in his life. Just the tiniest tweak to his name, he decides, would be enough to make himself seem more urban and distinctive. He remembers what Momma says about people who forget their roots. Not wanting to be one of those people, Tom decides that it isn't a matter of changing his name – just the name he _uses_.

And that is how Tom Collins begins calling himself Collins.

------------

Collins is twelve.

Forcibly entered into the school choir by parents who suspect he is not getting enough art in his life, Collins shrugs off the social aspects of after-school activities and focuses on the fact that hey, now he doesn't have to deal with James and his boyfriends prancing around the house. It's not that he minds James' boyfriends, or even the fact that he is gay; he just doesn't like looking at them and seeing etched in their faces their self-consciousness, their desperate thoughts of _oh, my god, what if someone finds out? _

So daily, abashedly he stands in the last row of the chorus rack, lips moving in tune to a song he doesn't know very well and in which he doesn't truly _believe_. In the past, there has been the occasional song that has woken him up and spoken to him, demanding that he focus and pay attention to the delicately crooned words. The songs sung in school, however, mean nothing to him whatsoever, so he drops out precisely one day prior to the concert. Momma and Dad shrug it off, enrolling their younger son in a drawing class and pretending that it doesn't matter, the way he seems to be so resistant to art.

Drawing is unsuccessful as well, and slightly more hope arises out of his less-than-detestable poetry class. He can write halfway decent prose and edit others' perfectly well, but reading prose and poetry is where his real talent seems to be. He picks out words and understands what they mean without any difficulty, comprehending every word. Momma and Dad, impressed with their son's talent, are eager enough to sign him up for the reccomended philosophy class, but a very bored Collins emerges from his first session and refuses to go back ever again. "Why?" Momma asks, bewildered.

"Because," her son replies, "the teacher keeps calling me Tom."

-------------

Collins is thirteen.

On a trip to the beach with Momma, Dad, James and one of James' boyfriends, Collins discovers that he is, when seperated from his family for long enough to wreak havoc on the world, a complete rebel. He has known for nearly two years how to drive a car, so he tugs James' license out of his brother's back pocket (knowing that he looks enough like the older boy to pass for him in case he is stopped by a policeman) and settles into the family car. James' boyfriend spots this, but luckily for Collins, the thirteen-year-old is on reasonably good terms with this boyfriend, so thankfully, he doesn't tell anyone.

When he returns from his aimless voyage, the same parking space is occupied, as are many others, and he is forced to park by a _meter_. Knowing that he only has fifty cents in his pocket, Collins merely jams the two quarters into the meter side-by-side, forced into the slot that is only wide enough to accommodate _one _quarter. Therefore, when the meter's screen turns blue and fades into blackness, Collins is perfectly honest in scrawling "Do Not Ticket – Meter Broken" on a piece of scrap paper and taping it onto the dashboard.

He finds his parents quickly enough and casually slips into his bathing suit. Although he needs to duck out of the gathering ten minutes early to pull the car into the space it was originally in (thank so-and-so it's vacant by that time) and pretend he just went to the bathroom, he suspects that Momma knows what happened and Dad couldn't care less.

So everyone is happy, and that's that.

--------------

Collins is fourteen.

In his freshman year of high school, he has absolutely nothing to do but sit behind the building when he can get out of class, watching his fellow students do the same. It doesn't matter that all he does behind the school is read books and complain about loud "teaching" going on from the windows above his head; anything, he knows in his heart, is better than being taught about the formula for so-and-so geometric shape and why it's important when, really, it's about as important as the ability to ride a unicycle naked through Taiwan in winter without a helmet on a road that goes just about straight downhill.

Rebellion. That's what this is called, he knows, and it was taught to him by his loving brother. James knows everything, it seems, because he even managed to explain to his brother exactly how good it feels to rebel – but then again, so did Momma and Dad in Collins' eleventh year, encouraging him to do things that he isn't supposed to, like break curfew (which he doesn't have) and go on secret dates (which aren't necessary when his parents _urge _him to do it).

What James didn't explain about the adrenaline of rebellion is exactly _why _it happens. But yes, Collins knows. He is one hundred percent certain, in fact. Rebelling feels utterly fantastic because one is acting only on one's own desire, doing exactly what one wishes without having to confine oneself to the boundaries of what people want and expect in society. Nothing feels better than just doing what _he _wants to do, without needing to care about what others might say.

It is with that in mind that he skips class, kisses boys, and smokes marijuana.

---------------

Collins is fifteen.

It isn't a particularly huge revelation when he discovers that he is gay, and he only receives a slap on the back from James and a roared "Welcome to the club!" when he shared the news with his brother. ("Now," according to James, "this house contains a straight man, a straight woman, a gay guy, a bisexual guy, and a girl who is well on her way to lesbianism.") When he informs Momma and Dad that he is gay – which he discovered when he casually developed an erection while kissing this kid named Marcus – he is met with blank stares. It is quite something to discover that one's parents thought that he was gay long before he knew it himself, and Collins isn't entirely unfazed by it.

Rhondia is hardly worth discussing – although she _does _know gay from straight at age four, she cannot yet comprehend why one might be superior to the other. Yet when Collins casually takes to leaning against school walls and kissing boys whose hearts beat faster than the wings of frightened butterflies, negative reactions to him become the norm at school. He lives in the suburbs, and so there are all sorts of sheltered people and their prejudice, but he does not understand _why_. If it's purely a religious issue, why try discussing it to Tom Collins the athiest?

But it is unnecessary to even dwell on the issue, because even when confronted by angry people who think they might get him back to kissing girls, which he has never done, Collins meets them with expressionless eyes and points out that "I hardly think my life is your business," after which he will disclose some personal fact about so-and-so and so-and-so's secret affair and ask, "Now, does that really have anything to do with _me_?"

----------------

Collins is sixteen.

When he decides to move away from home, it's not because he doesn't like his family. That isn't it at all. Collins _loves _everyone in his house, from artistic Momma to playful Dad, and from Rhondia's jubilance to James and his underwear-drawer supply of marijuana, which is generously shared among his friends and brother on the weekends and when Momma and Rhondia are out. And it isn't because he hates school, even though he does – his loathing for this organized pretend-education is matched only by his loathing for republicans. However, that isn't why he wants to leave.

It's because he doesn't like his surroundings.

Sure, his family is nice enough, but he lives in the _suburbs_. Sooner or later, he'll start dying inside from all the sheltered people he encounters on a regular basis. (He doesn't know _why _young, hippie Momma and Dad moved to the suburbs instead of their dream – no, their future _son_'s dream – of New York, but go figure.) Sooner or later, Collins decides, he will grow so bitter at having his opinions repressed in public that he will stop sharing them with anyone at all, even James, who has been so good a companion over the years.

Sooner or later, Collins knows, there will be nothing left to do in his life but sit and stare at the walls, with nothing to do or accomplish, here in the suburbs.

Now it is only a matter of timing.

-----------------

Collins is seventeen.

At last, it is nearing time to exchange goodbyes. He thinks they are a long time in coming, and the last few weeks in particular seem stretched and unnecessary, with everyone _knowing _that he is going to leave anyway. Even Rhondia knows it, poking her head up and blowing kisses at her brother as he passes her. When Collins returns from school one day with a notice clasped between his fingers announcing the date and time of the graduation ceremony, James claps his brother on the shoulder and tells him, "You'd better start packing, huh?" What the older boy doesn't know is that his brother slowly walks up the stairs to his room and does just that, filling backpack upon backpack with clothes and notebooks that are far from blank.

He walks home from graduation. Clutched in his palm is a roll of paper that means nothing to him, a train ticket to New York, and his brother's hand. When the two brothers reach the Collins house – the house of Momma, Dad, James (on the weekends) and Rhondia – it is only a split second before everyone gathers around the front door to exchange goodbyes. Collins, his head down as he kisses his sister and mother, barely speaks. He knows exactly what this is: the end of Stage One of his life, and just nearing the beginning of Stage Two.

"I'll drive him to the train station," James says quickly, and nobody deigns to argue or protest "Let me come, too." After all, the two brothers are closer than anybody else in the family, save perhaps for Momma and Dad, and it is fitting that Collins' final goodbye to a family member is to his beloved older brother.

"Here," says James as the train pulls up before him and his brother. He hands Collins a hardcover book, its pages decorated with flowery words written to persuade. "Read this, if not on the train, once you get there. I know it'll mean something to you. It didn't to me, but – you're the one who's cut out for this stuff."

With a book on philosophy in his hand and his brother in his arms, if only temporarily, Collins feels ready to face the world. All New York owes him now is love, and that shouldn't be too hard to find, should it?


	6. Maureen

---

Maureen is three.

As is the case with many three-year-olds, she has a deep affection for all that is either pink or shiny. Or both, which seems to be her absolute preference. But Mommy and Daddy, who are, after all, upper-class, aren't as amused by their daughter's latest obsession as she is. In fact, they wonder if perhaps she should already begin what Maureen calls "grown-up stuff" – in this case, learning her letters and numbers. Maureen can read, yes, but in her frenzy to get "the answer" right, she runs into trouble translating what she reads into words. Far from uncommon, particularly in children, this is a condition that ought not to be so scorned by Mommy and Daddy, but nonetheless, the Johnsons aren't the most communicative family. Maureen seems the oddball in that respect, in her hurry to express every word that pops into her mind.

In a family where people don't talk to one another, Maureen needs _something _to do, so she sits and plays with her dollies and stuffed animals and things that are pink and shiny. When ideas pop into her head, like the time she thought maybe it'd be cool to drink some of the colorful stuff in Daddy's glass bottles that taste like soda, only stronger, Maureen acts out her stories with dolls first. Then, after the happy ending – but never before – comes Maureen's daydreams about herself being the princess, and eventually, she'll just get up and _do _whatever it is she acted out with her dolls, even if the happy ending seemed forced and not really plausible in the Johnson world.

Maybe it's a mercy and maybe a curse, but for Maureen, anything can happen. Cliché as it is, the girl loves a good story, and little girls with dolls and time for themselves aren't really known to differentiate between fantasy and reality.

----

Maureen is four.

She is forced one day into a frilly periwinkle dress, shiny white shoes, and a hair bow that makes her whole head hurt. She explains her problem to Mommy, who merely shrugs and says that nobody can be comfy all the time. Maureen pouts exaggeratedly, which of course causes that funny stuff on her lip to smudge all over her chin. Annoyed, Mommy reaches over and swipes at it hastily before turning back to the front seat of the car. In a sing-song voice, Maureen asks where they are going. Daddy replies that they are attending a brunch at the country club, and Maureen, satisfied that the afternoon will be completely dull and unpleasant, kicks his seat.

She isn't spoiled, per se, although it'd be far from shocking if she was. No, Maureen is simply unused to having to socialize. So when Mommy and Daddy unload the three children from the car, it is the youngest that is pouting, arms crossed over her chest, dress wrinkled and smudged with that icky lip stuff Mommy put on her. Immediately, she sets off at a run towards the shiny building that is the country club, which is unwelcoming but sparkly all the same. Of course, the nearly-entertaining appearance of the building dies down immediately when Maureen runs head-on into a silver-haired woman with a haircut taller than Maureen's whole body, almost. A huff and scoff later, the woman is gone, and Maureen sitting on the steps leading to the big double doors that Mommy and Daddy need a key to open.

Not everyone appreciates the little princess that is Maureen, apparently, and some days, it seems like nobody does.

-----

Maureen is five.

The best part of kindergarten, she finds, is that the classroom has more possibilities for dress-up than either home or the country club _ever _had. Delighted, she takes to experimentation. She tries on such things as fairy princess dresses and superstar outfits. It is the latter that she prefers, immensely so; at home, she has more than her fill of princess time, and to be perfectly honest, she finds it rather dull.

Another thing she enjoys about kindergarten is that, for the first time, she has the opportunity and the ability to socialize with children her age. Her siblings Lia and Gareth, being much older and far less pleasant than she, do not count, nor does two-year-old Wendy. But soon enough, Maureen finds that her classmates aren't little rays of sunshine either. After all, five-year-olds tend not to take too well to being hoarded by a pink-wearing little girl who takes charge in games of dress-up and never lets anybody else play the fun parts.

Maureen, however, is perfectly content with her status as the class outcast, because in all the movies Mommy and Daddy and Lia and Gareth have ever watched with her, never once did a person with the unhappy ending seem so bubbly as she does. As far into the future as Maureen can see, there doesn't seem to be any point of unpleasantness.

------

Maureen is six.

Disciplinary troubles are not _uncommon_, per se, with first-graders, but with Maureen, Mommy and Daddy practically expect the first phone call home. They grow more and more skeptical and suspicious as November rolls around, and still no phone call has been placed to their home. At last, on November the eighteenth, Mommy leaves work early to pay a visit to Maureen's school. Sure enough, she discovers that the six-year-old has been wreaking havoc upon the class by pulling hair, fighting with the bigger boys (definitely a cause for concern; it takes a lot to get these boys into fights, considering the fact that their mommies all tell them never to hit people, especially girls), and calling out. It is, explains the teacher, definitely a plea for attention.

"Maureen gets all the attention she needs at home," Mommy insists, but Maureen would disagree, and Mommy even knows it. Lia, Gareth, and three-year-old Wendy soak up any attention that their parents have to offer, which admittedly isn't much; so little is left for Maureen that is hardly a surprise she craves attention so much. With a sigh, Mommy shifts in her seat and inquires, "What do you suggest I do?"

The teacher then goes into great detail, describing the many "simple but effective" ways in which parents can nurture their students' needs. "I understand that you're very busy," she tells Mommy calmly, "so much so that you weren't able to respond to my calls – "

"Calls?" interrupts Mommy. She knows for sure that she didn't have any calls from the teacher. Or did she?

The teacher sighs deeply. "You mean to tell me that the number Maureen gave me to reach you isn't correct?"

It certainly seems that way. But by the time Mommy gets home, the little girl is already asleep, and the issue forgotten by morning. Miscommunication of this sort surely does not make for a healthy relationship, but Mommy decides that sometimes it's best to just sigh and grumble one's way through things rather than making them more unpleasant; with that, she considers the subject officially dropped. For now, anyway.

-------

Maureen is seven.

She decides that when she grows up, she wishes to pursue a career in singing. In fact, the impatient child desires not to wait until she is an adult, but to begin her training as a vocalist _immediately_. A smirk on his pale face, Gareth informs her that he'll let her know when every other room is soundproofed, and _then _she can begin her singing. Maureen pounces on him then, and they have a playful little wrestling match that becomes less playful when Maureen's knee digs into a soft spot that "I kinda need if I'm ever gonna continue the Johnson line, little sis, so – off!"

So alone, Maureen makes her way up to the room she shares with Wendy, who is now four and sweet enough to sit on her bed calmly and listen to Maureen croon her way through the scales. In fact, croon isn't quite the appropriate word – squawk would be more fitting, because as a singer, or at least an aspiring one, Maureen is sadly lacking. She briefly considers acting instead when her song drives pregnant Mommy to tears, but shrugs it off upon hearing Daddy and Gareth's cackles.

Wendy buries her face in her pillow, desperate to just _not hear it_. Maureen, who by now is beginning to suspect that this whole thing is hopeless, merely stands in the center of the room and contemplates. _If I can't sing, what's left_? she wonders, and it's really unfortunate that all the good jobs have already been "taken" by her siblings and parents. The only thing left, she thinks, is a teacher, and as good with kids as she may be (considering that she _is _one), Maureen in no way wishes or is permitted to spend her life explaining to a group of children that one plus one is two, and two minus one is one, and d-o-g spells dog. Those are the educational basics Maureen has mastered at this point, and it seems silly to just go on to teach them to more kids when they won't know them until second grade anyway.

--------

Maureen is eight.

She realizes one day that most kids love – or at least like – their siblings.

It takes Maureen a moment to realize that this most definitely does not apply to her. Eleven-year-old Gareth, twelve-year-old Lia, and five-year-old Wendy are nice enough, but in no way does Maureen like them. And she definitely doesn't like the new one, Mommy's last (according to Daddy), barely three months old. They all make too much noise, especially three-month-old Danny, who wakes Maureen up in the middle of the night with his crying. Wendy, too, makes an inordinate amount of noise, and Gareth pokes people, which Maureen deems unacceptable unless she herself is the poker.

Lia is the only one who even remotely merits Maureen's attention, and only she because her hair is shiny, a liking that Maureen has still not gotten over, and she sometimes gives Maureen money for extra snacks in school. Plus, Lia is one of those people who smiles a lot, even when she doesn't like someone, kind of like Maureen herself except that Maureen's smiles make it really obvious when she dislikes somebody. Lia isn't like that, and Daddy says that's why she's probably going to be a lawyer someday. (Maureen asks him one day what she'll be, and Daddy tells her to ask again in two years. She marks it on her five-year calendar draped over her wall, displaying a picture of a purple unicorn for this bright month of May.)

Gareth, Daddy says, will grow up to be a doctor; Wendy will probably become a scientist, with her uncomprehensible liking for the chemistry set Maureen got for some birthday and never opened. Lia, again, will be lawyer, and Daddy suggests playfully that one day Danny may become an opera singer. Maureen only tugs on Daddy's sleeve and wants to know if she can be a singer, and as gently as possible, Daddy reminds her that Maureen can't exactly sing.

So middle child Maureen Johnson, talentless in her own mind, sits sulkily among a future doctor, lawyer, singer and scientist of suburban Long Island. And envy, blooming early in a child but just on time for a middle child, is why she does not like her siblings.

---------

Maureen is nine.

It isn't her decision to go to the city with Lia, but rather an obligation. Lia, being thirteen, wants to consider attending a high school in Manhattan, oblivious to the horrors of commuting from Long Island to Manhattan and back _daily_. Mommy and Daddy are of the opinion that should she go to the city with a sibling, they will not need to tag along, and Gareth immediately opts out in favor of a soccer tournament. Wendy is far too young, of course, and this leaves Maureen. Lia presses thirty dollars into her sister's hand, plucks the train tickets out of Mommy's fingers, and ushers Maureen out the door.

The train ride is uneventful; it is the actual arrival in the city that fazes Maureen, unsurprisingly. Her nose pressed against the glass, she gets her first glimpse of the New York City skyline and demands of her sister, "What is _this_?"

Laughing, Lia informs Maureen that it is Manhattan, and no, it isn't available for sale – that if it was, Mommy and Daddy's hands would be on it for Lia's birthday present before anyone else could so much as blink. With a laugh, the two sisters brush their way off the train, shouldering passengers with luggage and briefcases and avant-garde mobile phones. The minute Maureen steps outside, however, she sits on the curb, gazing out at the cars as they pass, sitting on her knees with her feet behind her with typical suburban concern for her safety.

"I'm gonna live here one day," she promises Lia. Big sister merely laughs and informs Maureen that she doesn't doubt it.

----------

Maureen is ten.

Maureen, whose fantasy-themed calendar has long been replaced by one featuring kittens, has by no means forgotten her father's promise two years ago. On the exact two-year anniversary of that day when she was eight, Maureen saunters down the stairs from her bedroom into the basement, where Daddy's mini-office is located. It is summertime, so, prepared for the worst, Maureen brings along a water bottle. Her hair loosely tied back in a ponytail, she considers herself perfectly relaxed and serene as she steps into Daddy's study. _No pressure_.

"Dad-_dy_," Maureen sing-songs, "what am I going to be when I grow up?"

Edward Johnson has never claimed to know everything. Certainly, his actions imply it at times – such as his inopportunely-timed negative comments with regard to just about every person's performance in their career – but never has he spoken his suspicion out loud. That is to say, although he may believe that he is all-knowing, he has never actually said it, and therefore it does not count. When the bubbliest ten-year-old he has ever seen asks him what kind of corporate drone she will grow up to be, Daddy is utterly bewildered. But he promised his daughter an answer, so with feigned certainty, he replies, "A producer."

Maureen sinks dramatically into one of the room's leather chairs. "But _Daddy_," she wails, "I don't _wanna_."

-----------

Maureen is eleven.

The school is hosting a talent show, as all schools eventually do, and, convinced that she is the only sixth-grader among the masses of tap dancers and future lawyers that actually has _talent_, Maureen scrawls her name on the sign-up sheet, taking up the majority of the page. She has an "autograph" now, a signature practiced for the day when she is "famous." (Although Daddy has not yet relented in his insistance that Maureen should and _will _grow up to be a producer, she takes no heed of his words and continues singing in her bedroom, forcing Gareth to scream at her to please, please take the "dying animal" elsewhere.)

After creating an elaborate costume out of a golden leotard, rhinestones and sparkling "diamonds" intended for arts and crafts, Maureen sits on a stool in the bathroom as Mommy does her hair and Lia her makeup. When Maureen's caramel-colored curls fall around her shoulders beautifully and her face shines like the gold of her leotard, she is deemed ready for the performance. She briefly hugs her sister for what may be the first time in months before dancing onstage.

Well, Maureen is no better at singing onstage than she is at home, and Gareth, outfitted in a suit and seated in the fourth row, has to scrunch up his face in order to block out the horrible sound. Although Maureen goes where no sixth-grader other than her has yet – and remembers all the lyrics to her song – there is still the failing of the high note at the end. Although assured by Wendy that it sounded great yesterday, Maureen manages to crack on it. She does not even bother running backstage when this happens, and merely leaps off the stage and scampering into the bathroom. With a sigh, Lia follows, knowing that to comfort one's sister in such a situation is just about the best thing someone can do. Wendy comes along, but her words of "You did great" can not even compare to Lia's comforting words, promising other, better performances, where Maureen's leotard will be completed with a swirling skirt around it, billowing around her like an aura. Sufficiently lightened, Maureen returns to her seat, make-up smudged but no less delighted when she recieves an honorable mention.

It isn't the same as the first prize she had been aiming for, but it is something, and besides, she has Lia.

------------

Maureen is twelve.

Lia is having a sweet sixteen.

This is deeply offensive to Maureen, who has always been slightly biased towards the idea that only _she _should have elaborate birthday affairs, or just affairs in general; although Lia is nice and sweet and sometimes a pretty decent sister, Maureen feels that her having a party is just annoying, and four years in the future, it'll hinder Maureen's ability to be "original" when planning her own sweet sixteen – assuming she has one. Gareth, equally irritated by this whole thing, offers to take Maureen out for the night, stay over at a friend's house who has a sibling Maureen's age, and return in the morning. Mommy, Daddy, and Maureen agree, and Lia is greatly relieved, having long since feared that Maureen would interrupt the party with another attempt at singing. Wendy and Danny, however, are forced to stay for the party, and Maureen pressed her video camera into Wendy's hands, telling her to "use it well."

It is on this particular evening that Maureen realizes that she has never really spent quality time with her brother before. Danny, certainly, she has spent time with, often unnecessarily, and Wendy and Lia are prominent figures in her life. Gareth, however, has always seemed so focused on whatever he does holed up in his room that involves blasting music and stomping. Over dinner, which is paid for by Daddy's credit card (a temporary reward for Gareth's agreeability when it comes to taking care of Maureen), Maureen tries her best to get Gareth to divulge the secrets of his bedroom. Eventually, after consuming an inordinate amount of sugar, Gareth confesses his secret: that in the privacy of his room, he plays music and he _dances_.

Maureen could not be happier, and she explains to her brother what _she _does in her spare time: act. When he looks at her questioningly, an excited Maureen elaborates, "I used to sing, but now I do a little of that and most of the time, I act. Like I pretend to be a princess, or a witch, or an orphan on the city streets, or whatever. It's juvenile, but it's awesome."

Gareth grins at his sister, shrugs, and hands Daddy's credit card to the waiter. "What do you say we go back to Mike's and we try out this make-believe thing of yours?" he offers.

Maureen beams so brightly that, when Gareth blows out the candle on the table, the table remains brightly lit. The siblings depart, leaving Maureen with the warm feeling that is the residue of an evening well spent.

-------------

Maureen is thirteen.

Okay, so sometimes she wants things that are a little hard to get.

When the eighth-grade prom rolls around, she has mixed feelings about it. Of course she wants to go, wants to wear the beautiful, sparkly dress that Mommy and Lia picked out for her, but she doesn't think that anybody likes her enough to want to attend with her. At least, nobody she knows. So the Sunday before the big event, she goes out walking, not just in her suburb, but in the neighboring town-that's-really-more-like-a-city. She sits in a small café, watching people enter and exit with coffee in their hands – ready to face the world.

A group of teenagers (plus one adult) exits from a building across the street and enters the tiny establishment that is Glen's Café. They station themselves at a table very close to Maureen's, enabling her to hear the conversation that leads her to understand that the group is a support group for homosexual, bisexual and questioning adolescents. On the way out, a single boy remains briefly, for just long enough time for his eyes to meet Maureen's and for her to pray that this kid is either bi or questioning, because he's just _so _good-looking. Even gay people can still like girls sometimes, right? When they're _really_, really good looking?

Maureen sidles up to the boy, shirt tight enough around her "assets" for him to know what he's dealing with. "This chair empty?" she asks with a smile.

Hey, she can hope, can't she?

--------------

Maureen is fourteen.

It comes in a burst of her newfound adolescence; a talent, which has up until this point been a severe failure of hers, is now among her strengths.

Singing.

At first, the change is gradual. She loves singing, and always has; never before has she allowed her lack of skill in the area to dampen her enjoyment of it. So in her own mind, while belting out the words to the latest pop single, she _is _whatever singer makes the song famous, she _is _that person, and her voice is equally so. Even in her knowledge that yes, her voice cracks, and yes, she has trouble with high notes, in the heat of the moment, as she sings, Maureen barely notices any of it.

She doesn't notice it at first, but slowly, a breathy undertone creeps into her voice. Deep and soulful, it makes her words all the more meaningful, allowing Gareth to leave his bedroom door open while Maureen sings. After a whopping _two weeks_, her once-horrendous voice has blossomed into that of a real singer's, and, overjoyed, all Maureen can think to do is sing.

That's it. To celebrate, she doesn't steal a bottle of champagne from the fridge downstairs, or go out for dinner with her family. No, it isn't that kind of an occasion. All it calls for is a little display of her talent, and so she performs a little concert. Gareth, Wendy, Danny and Lia sit themselves down on her bed, and Maureen just sings.

Three hours go by before the first individual recognizes that she has somewhere to be, followed by two more, but Gareth stays the longest. Concluding her concert, Maureen wonders, "Where did that come from? How did I get so… good?"

Gareth shrugs. "Maybe you just had it in you all along."

---------------

Maureen is fifteen.

Lia was once an artist, Maureen remembers. She would paint in her room and keep her creations in a locked drawer. But when college applications roll around, the paints are set aside – ignored are the colorful tools of Lia's self-expression, replaced by a stack of papers, a pen, and college insignias spread randomly around the house. Maureen learns them: Harvard, Yale, Brown, Princeton, NYU, Berkely, Boston… it seems Lia is aiming high. Her grades have always been above average, but when the acceptance letters start coming back, Maureen wonders if there might be something more important than grades that Lia has never noticed before.

As she finds that she is accepted to more and more colleges, Lia becomes more irritable, not at all like the cheerful disposition she usually possesses, and might be expected to possess even more of considering her status as an accepted college applicant. But no; rather, she is grumpy, and upon Maureen's frequent, perfectly ordinary requests to be taken into the city, Lia snarls at her sister and points out that there are things more important than going into Manhattan – like _college_, perhaps? Maureen, stung, seeks out the company of Gareth and Wendy instead, but keeps an eye on the sister who was so much more beautiful and pleasant before she sold out.

When Lia at last leaves for college, Maureen and her siblings breathe simultaneous sighs of relief, but it is short-lived; Gareth is up next, and being the brooding dancer he is, his behavior is unpredictable.

----------------

Maureen is sixteen.

High school has always been dull. This is something that she merely _knows_, something she has understood since birth and never questioned. But when sitting with thirteen-year-old Wendy, whose goal is to be admitted into a school that'll just give her easy work until she graduates, Maureen finds that there's something more to life than just being bored all the time. Gareth, whose attitude toward life has improved significantly since he has been taking dance lessons (paid for with his own money, due to his fear of Daddy finding out and scorning his passion), is a prime example of this, as is Lia, who is back to her cheerful self now that she has human rights courses to entertain her during the day, and parties and clubs at night.

"I'm leaving," Maureen tells Danny one day, voice devoid of emotion. "I'm going into the city, and that's it." She has always adored drama, and merely leaves her younger brother in utter bewilderment as she scampers up the stairs to retrieve her long-packed bags. At her door, she meets Wendy and Gareth, each holding a bag and wearing a look that conveys something vaguely resembling pride.

"Hi," she greets them. "Look, I guess you've figured out where I'm going, 'cause nobody leaves Long Island to go anywhere but the city. Why? You must know that too. When? Right now." With an almost apologetic smile, she wraps a single arm around Wendy. "I'll call," she promises her sister, and plants a kiss on Gareth's forehead before promising him the same. "See you."

With that, she departs, and is never seen or heard from in Long Island again. A single note, left on the kitchen counter, is all the evidence of Maureen Johnson's presence in the upper-class Johnson household, and a few days later, even that is gone as well.


	7. Benny

---

Benny is three.

It is often suggested in the Coffin household that Benjamin was an accident. Although Benny does not quite comprehend how a _person _can be an accident, he understands that this is probably why Ma and Da don't like him that much. He knows they don't like him because sometimes Da just turns around and _glares _at him, says mean things, and mutters, "Goddamn condoms." Benny doesn't know what a goddamn condom is, but he can tell it has something to do with why Da doesn't like him.

Ma is a different story altogether. Although she doesn't hate Benny as much as Da does, she too gives him looks of loathing occasionally. However, she sometimes sits in his room while he tries to get to sleep, his breathing evened and dreams prewritten as a result of the creak of Ma's rocking chair. She doesn't speak to him – ever – or sing, the way some Benny knows some mothers do to their kids, but Benny is happy for her presence, regardless. It makes him feel like maybe even if Ma doesn't flat-out _love _him, she at least doesn't hate him and avoid him like the plague, the way Da does.

At three, Benny knows how to react around Ma and Dad. He keeps his head down, watches his feet, and wonders what he could do to get Ma and Da to like him. He cleans up the apartment, which Da growls hasn't been the same since Benny was born, and offers childishly to skip Christmas to save money. Christmas is something he has read and heard of, but never celebrated; however, as all three-year-olds do at some point, he experiences difficulty in differentiating between fiction and reality, and feigns memories of celebrating it. Ma tells Da it's cute, and it's natural; Da tells Ma that she should just shut up, that her job is to keep the house neat and not to back-talk him.

Suitably chastised, those are the times when Ma retreats to Benny's room and watches him. She never speaks to him, though. Never.

----

Benny is four.

Since Da and Ma hate him _that much_, he is banished from the apartment briefly, sent to Grandpa's apartment in Perth Amboy. Benny has never met Grandpa before, so is nervous about going, but when he arrives, he is forced to face his fears. Ma and Da drop him and his bag on the front porch and drive away, leaving the only child completely alone to ring the doorbell, petrified of who or what will be on the other side.

As it turns out, Grandpa is just an old person. His long, textured dark hair matches Ma, and its many dreadlocks bounce against his back in a ponytail. Benny considers this impressive; he's never seen any man with such long hair before, just as he has never seen anyone whose hands tremble the way Grandpa's do. And certainly, he has never been addressed by anyone the way Grandpa addresses him upon their first meeting: "Hey, kid. I guess you're Maya's kid, huh?" Without waiting for an answer and without peering to see if Ma and Da are outside, he uses the strength of a true seventy-nine year old and hoists Benny's single bag into the air, then tosses it into the living room. "Nothing fragile in there, I hope?" Grandpa asks lightly. Benny only shakes his head, too shocked to speak.

Over the three weeks they spend together, Benny learns a few things about Grandpa. One is that not all people who smoke are intimidating; by a drunken Da, Benny has been mockingly offered many a cigarette in his life, and learned to fear them. Grandpa, however, explains to his grandson that the cancer-causing substances themselves are not what ought to be feared. Addiction, he emphasizes, is the true fear, and nearly-eighty-year-olds don't have much to fear by way of addiction anyway. Benny doesn't understand, but he pretends he does.

When he is picked up by Ma and Da, Benny is deeply sorrowful to say a last farewell to Grandpa, beer, and television, none of which are available in his own home. He says nothing of the sort to his parents, however, and sits silently throughout the rest of the car ride. It is hardly out of character for him, after all.

-----

Benny is five.

Knowing as he does that most people his age have friends, Benny attempts to make some of his own. He sneaks out of the apartment one day, creeps downstairs, and scampers across the street just as a little girl just his age sneaks out of her own house. "Hi," he says, popping up out of the bushes. "I'm Benny, I live over there." He points, unable to comprehend the girl's horrified expression. "You wanna play?"

"You live with poor people," she tells him accusingly. "You're icky." With that, she galllops away to join the man who just now emerges from the same building she came out of. Irritated and hurt, Benny watches for a few minutes as the girl recounts the events to the man who must be her father. Instead of feeling upset, however, Benny sighs.

It is people like these that make him wonder why mean people are allowed to exist. They don't do anything good for the world, right? So what is the purpose in their existence? Is it to present a roadblock for the innocent, or to make live interesting? Is it to make people more different from each other? Or maybe, Benny thinks, visualizing Da as he climbs the stairs to his second-story apartment, maybe mean people exist because nobody knows how to get rid of them. Maybe they're too hateful and hurtful and scary for people to eliminate them from the earth – and therefore, there is nothing to do but let them live.

------

Benny is six.

The fact that he still cannot read is a cause for alarm; although Grandpa's monthly-or-so visits are filled with attempts to teach the child to read, none are successful, and Da claims that school is stupid anyway. So it seems that the child will not be attending school in the near future – until, that is, Grandpa takes the matter up with Da in private. It is a long four hours for Benny, whose ear is pressed against the door as he pretends to try to tie his shoes. Though he doesn't understand most of the words Da and Grandpa say, he pretends he does, which is usually enough anyway.

Da and Grandpa emerge, and Benny scampers into the living room, where he studies his fingernails carefully. Da then leans over, jerks his son's head up, and growls, "You start school on Monday, you little prick."

Benny waits the seventy-one seconds for Da to disappear outside before he leaps up and hugs Grandpa. He doesn't quite understand the concept of "school," but he knows that it means getting out of the house and getting to meet other little people like himself. "Thanks," he gushes to Grandpa, not knowing any other ways to express his undying gratitude. Grandpa briefly surveys the boy that is so unexpectedly like him before sighing deeply and offering Benny a place in _his _apartment for the day. Grateful beyond words, Benny consents, delightedly resigning himself to a day of entertainment at Grandpa's.

-------

Benny is seven.

He wonders how a person can inspire such fear in people as Da does. Ma, he suspects, is afraid of Da, and that is a fear the he himself _knows _he has. Da is a terrifying presence, of course; there is no getting around that. Ma, while she may simply be a naturally fearful person, appears to Benny to have once been a truly strong individual prior to the abuse she suffered at Da's hands. It makes Benny wonder how she was prior to the marriage, to meeting Da and having Benny and becoming Mrs. Coffin instead of Miss Whoever-She-Was-Before.

Benny resolves at this point to never get married – ever – for love or money or _anything_. He doesn't know what Ma married Da for, considering that she doesn't love him and he certainly lacks money. Or maybe Ma had no say in it; Benny recalls reading about arranged marriages in Social Studies. Maybe that's what this is, an arranged marriage. But Benny can't forget the remarks about his being an _accident_, and he remembers that arranged marriages were originally invented to improve finances and have attractive babies. At least, that's what he was told in school.

The only logical conclusion is that Ma _didn't _choose, Benny decides, to marry Da. If that is the case, Benny's loathing for his father is intensified a thousand times over, because it means that the biggest decision of Ma's life was made without her own approval, which is Da's fault.

If that is truly the case, Benny knows that Da is a terrifying person indeed.

--------

Benny is eight.

Although Da has always given him mean looks and insults, Benny has never yet received a physical blow from his father until one evening, following the consumption of nine glass bottles of yellowish liquid that Benny vaguely recognizes from Grandpa's house. At first, Benny barely registers the punch to his face, but it is only a second later that he is kneeling on the floor, clutching the nose that may be broken and is gushing blood onto the little boy's hands.

Fortunately for Benny, Ma hears his whimpers and emerges from the kitchen to investigate. Finding her son sprawled on the floor with a broken nose, she can think of naught else to do than to pick up the phone and call an ambulance, as well as her own father. Grandpa arrives before the sirens do – in fact, the sirens are simply turned off, but he does arrive before the ambulance does. Benny, with a towel pressed to his nose and tears running down his face, merely squeaks and whimpers.

Although Benny is never informed of the evening's next goings-on, he knows that he is placed into the ambulance with Ma. While he is rushed to the hospital, Grandpa and Da have an enormous argument, ending with a sharp hook to Da's jaw and a dramatic exit on Grandpa's part. What Benny does find out later is that from there, Grandpa walks directly to the police station and fills out a report on domestic violence, accusing Da of hurting Benny and Ma on a regular basis.

Nine days later, Benny is released from the hospital, and instead of being driven "home," he is taken to Grandpa's house. As Ma explains to her son, she and Da need some alone time right now, and since Benny loves Grandpa so much, it shouldn't be a problem, should it?

---------

Benny is nine.

In school, it is easy for him to place the different kinds of kids there are. Labels are important to him, due to his intense need to classify everyone based on their relationships with him. For example, he recognizes that in school, there are the kids whose financial and political status matches his. There are those whose families are quite on the opposite spectrum, as well, and the greasy mini-city of Perth Amboy appears not to exclusde those either. Some kids in Benny's class are right smack in the middle, the way Grandpa says he was when he was younger.

He classifies them by race as well, figuring that it impacts their personalities and certainly the way he reacts to them, and by gender and just about everything else he can imagine. Still, he finds that his classmates' economic statuses are the most telling when it comes to defining how they relate to one another, because he has never once, since the age of five, managed to speak to the middle- and upper-middle-class students in his school. Although his friends are few and forgettable, they are predominantly black and poor, like Benny himself.

Still, he can't help but wonder what it might be like to be friends with _different _people. If he's only been with one kind of people for his whole life so far, how does he know he likes them _better_? Simply put: he doesn't. But intuition advises him against trying to be part of a group that he clearly wasn't meant to enter.

----------

Benny is ten.

There is no doubt in his mind what is to be done on Father's Day in school, which is observed with the rigid stillness of a religious holiday. Fathers are invited to a brunch at school where they will be served food made by their children, and while this is a cause for concern to Grandpa, Benny merely shrugs and takes his mentor's hand, dragging him to the car. "You can stay until three today, right?" he asks conversationally as the car pulls into the school parking lot, and it is with that that the two enter the school together, Grandpa playing the role of Benny's father not for the first time.

In the months immediately following this occasion, Benny realizes with certainty that Grandpa truly _is _his father figure. Were it not evident before, it certainly is now; between Grandpa's fervent completion of the papers enrolling Benny in middle school and his great care not to offend the impressionable boy, he is everything Da never was. Their home, a ranch – a single-story house with two bedrooms, a kitchen-slash-living-room, and a bathroom – is far more suitable for the boy than was the apartment he once shared with Ma and Da, in which heat was never a guarantee and food was even rarer.

In September of his tenth year, Benny asks Grandpa if he could please call him Da, just to enforce the title at which Grandpa stands in his life. Although Grandpa refuses to allow that, he does tell Benny the following: "Someone doesn't need a label to have an important place in your life. You know? I could be your friend, your grandpa, your father, whatever. It doesn't make our relationship any different."

-----------

Benny is eleven.

It is at this age that Grandpa first explains to Benny the wonder that is a garage sale. Ma and Da are out one day, so the two stealthy Coffins creep into their apartment and retrieve long-forgotten goods from one of their closets. Then, Benny and Grandpa select certain items of their own that are able to be sold, slap price stickers on them, throw them all on a table, and place the whole display outside, along with two folding chairs borrowed from the upstairs neighbor, who is an actor and often performs for the public in his own apartment.

People who come to buy certain items are not, thankfully, Ma and Da. Instead, those that purchase things are people from all over the building, people who are charmed by Benny's manners and Grandpa's friendly demeanor. As for those idiots passing through Perth Amboy on their way back to the suburbs, Benny and Grandpa have hastily-scrawled tags with higher prices and slap them on over the original prices. When Benny laughs and asks why they do this, Grandpa shrugs and says that he figures he can get more money from the rich idiots.

The strange thing is that it works. By the end of the day, Benny and Grandpa have sold half of their belongings and have made a hundred and forty dollars, nearly half of which was made as a result of the presence of suburban idiots. Out to dinner go the two beaming Coffins, and then to a bar where Benny's presence is perfectly natural considering Grandpa's frequent orders, and then, at last, they go back home. At that time, only seventeen dollars remain, which Grandpa figures is just enough money to pay the ticket he is bound to get for putting his yard sale table in handicapped parking spaces and leaving it there overnight.

Then again, he might need to sell the rest of the stuff before he can pay the _entire _ticket, but seventeen bucks is a pretty good start.

------------

Benny is twelve.

His former habitat with Ma and Da is called to his attention again. Although he has not visited since his ultimate departure from "home," it is deemed worthy of Benny's attention when Grandpa informs him that Ma is, well, dead. His stammering is the proof of it – even before Grandpa actually manages to say the word "dead," Benny is out of his seat and in the cheap, battered car, waiting to be driven somewhere, anywhere, so he can kill Da and mourn Ma and _then _help with the funeral plans. But alas, it happens quite differently. Grandpa does, yes, join Benny in the car, but it is to get to the hospital and confirm that the death was a result of domestic violence.

Unlike many a son in his case, Benny does not whimper and suspect that it was his fault – if only he'd stayed, he could have saved Ma. No; instead, Benny merely sits in silence, lets tears fall down his cheeks, and asks quietly when he can testify. In his area, minors are permitted to stand as witnesses in cases that concern him, and so it is a mere week before he can stand up in court and accuse Da of hurting Ma.

A week after that, Benny wears a rented tuxedo and stands up at Ma's funeral, speaking about her. He was never particularly close with her, it's true, but he certainly loved her, and isn't that enough? He speaks to relatives he has never met and will never see again, explaining that yes, Da did this to her, and he will be punished suitably (ten to fifteen years, it has been said), but it will do nobody any good to complain and hiss over Da's wrongdoings and forget all about Ma's contributions to the world.

When Benny gers home to his and Grandpa's apartment, it is over his first cigarette that the two Coffins mourn the mother and daughter that will certainly be missed.

-------------

Benny is thirteen.

In his entrance to the world of adolescence, he takes a brief moment to review the status of his life at this point in time. No, it does not concern money or politics, but rather, he wonders about love, in particular.

He loves Grandpa, and he loved Ma. He knows he does not and never did love Da, but rather the idea of turning up victorious over him. Is it wrong to love an _idea_? Benny doesn't know, nor does he really know anything about love. Living with a seventy-odd-year-old man who was never married and only had one kid isn't exactly the best environment for a teenager who wants to know about love, but he tries his best – without asking Grandpa, that is, because he doesn't want to see _that _battle. Grandpa is a staunch non-believer in love. But Benny is of the secret opinion that Grandpa loves him. At least, he hopes so.

In desperation, Benny decides on five non-living things that he loves. One is ethics, morals and his conscience, which he groups together and adores because of his deep-rooted loathing for those mean people he always has to see in school. The next is individuality and nonconformity, because he wonders exactly how horribly he would have turned out, had he not grown up in an environment where he feels comfortable and able to be himself.

Benny also loves Perth Amboy. It is a city he might describe as "ratty" if he did not live there, and even sometimes despite his ties to it, but he loves it anyway. Why? Simply for its culturally diverse background and "I really don't care about your personal matters" attitude. It is far from suburbia, and Benny loves it for that.

Two more things Benny loves are almost exactly the same thing: knowledge and education. To some, anyway, these would be seen as identical, but Benny knows better. What he knows is rarely what he is taught formally, and vice versa. For example, he knows that he is an individual, and yet he has never been told that. It is his own idea, and to Benny, at least, it is a hundred percent accurate.

Does it really matter what other people have to say on the matter? Not to Benny.

--------------

Benny is fourteen.

Now that he is in high school and has a much greater chance of somehow accessing cigarettes, Benny finds a lot of the stress from his life draining away. That is to say that while in eighth grade there was a modicum of pressure for him to get acceptable grades, here, he couldn't care less. He snags cigarettes and lighters and joints from his fellow students, lighting up his drug of choice and letting all his stress drain into the burning object. As his cigarettes turn to ashes, Benny watches the flame slowly die out, wondering if a cigarette would be too profane a metaphor for life itself to be put into a poem for school. He decides that if it comes from his heart, it should be okay.

In high school, it is odd, but he finds things much more relaxed and less tense. He shares cigarettes with Grandpa at home, although he finds that Grandpa smokes less and less, coughing more and more. He drinks with Grandpa, at least, maintaining an attitude of "fuck the fucking drinking age" as he goes to purchase six-packs of beer for himself and his grandfather. The people at the convenience store very clearly do not give a shit, and grin at the young teenager as he comes in every day with a twenty-dollar bill hanging out of his shirt pocket.

Although his teachers would love to hear that the drugs and alcohol are making his life more stressful, that is simply not the case. It is a fact, Benny decides, that he is a zillion times more comfortable sprawled on the couch, dragging on a cigarette, than he is in the same position with, say, potato chips.

Potato chips, he decides, are a kid's delicacy. But for a fourteen-year-old with pressure in school and a liberal grandfather, is there really anything keeping him away from a few joints and cigarettes a day? Not at all.

---------------

Benny is fifteen.

He is surprised to discover that in reality, he is perfectly content with his life with Grandpa. Sure, kids his age love to preach about how they are rebels, but try as he might, Benny cannot find a single thing in his life that he would like to rebel against. No; he is happy as everything is, and wouldn't change it one bit.

He wouldn't run away, or leave home or school. Life is pleasantly simple when he wants it to be, and sure, it has its complications when he craves interesting roadblocks – and yes, it happens often enough. He wouldn't want to live away from Grandpa, not because he doesn't think he can, but because he loves Grandpa and wouldn't want to be apart from him. It's almost that he's in love with the way life is now, even if he doesn't live with Da, even if Ma is dead, even if he doesn't have any siblings or friends or people his own age to love. No, Grandpa is enough for Benny, and wanting anything more would seem a bit like pushing his luck. O

Sure, it's fine to live in the dirty, crime-ridden Perth Amboy. He doesn't mind the crappy apartment, doesn't mind being poor, doesn't mind any of it. Really, the only thing he _does _mind is that Grandpa is coughing a lot more than usual now, and he seems sick, but won't let Benny do anything about it. "I'm fine," he says, and Benny is skeptical but unwilling to cause a fight. What good would it do, anyway?

Circumstances can only improve when there is a will for them to do so, Benny knows, and he really doesn't want anything to change. In fact, change is is greatest fear at the moment, and that is what he is afraid might happen.

----------------

Benny is sixteen.

It happens too quickly for him to make anything of it. The days pass by in a blur, Grandpa coughing on the sofa and refusing to be taken to the hospital. After the days turn into a solid month, the hospital cannot be avoided, and Benny comes home from school ready to tell Grandpa that when he finds the house devoid of any breathing save for his own. Grandpa is found dead in his sleep, a cigarette's fresh ashes speckling the bedsheet and Grandpa's clothing.

Benny has seen his mother's death. Rather, he has been privy to its consequences. In this case, it is far more serious; at the time of Ma's death, the two had lived with each other for far shorter a time, not to mention the fact that the two were never close. Grandpa has been Benny's mentor and role model since as far back as he can remember, and besides, he and Grandpa have been close all their lives. He is – was – Benny's _guardian_, for god's sake.

As was the case with Ma, Benny is left all Grandpa's money and possessions. As for the material objects, he sells them, then spends a good deal of his acquired money on a car – a Range Rover, which is far less shitty than what he always expected to drive, should he ever have managed to come into possession of an automobile. With the Range Rover, Benny drives – just drives. He drives from Perth Amboy through a dark tunnel, trying not to hallucinate Grandpa as he does, and ends up in New York. Whether or not it was deliberate, Benny will never be able to remember, but he can recall his sharp intake of breath upon entering the city.

Manhattan is no Perth Amboy, but it has no memories for Benny, none good nor bad. It has no familiar faces, no shabby old apartment that contains just about every cigarette Benny ever smoked. It doesn't have things like yard sales or headline news about domestic violence-caused murders, and for god's sake, it doesn't have all the fuckery Benny intends to never see again – the fuckery that is his childhood, that is. He resolves to change himself, to make himself unrecognizable from who he was formerly.

The first thing he does on that quest is to find his _own _apartment, which he ends up sharing with roommates (so it isn't really his own). It takes three weeks to do so.

What he does immediately afterward is to drop the habit of smoking and drinking and smoking pot – and it is easy enough, probably as a result of the trauma of finding one's mentor in bed, dead, with cigarette ashes sprinkled over his blankets and a cremation to come.

Benny has always feared change, so it is quite a bad sign when the next thing he does, years and yearslater, is to break the promise he sealed for himself years and years prior. He gets married.

If that isn't a sign that Benny's life is starting to go utterly downhill, he will never know what is.


	8. Mimi

---

Mimi is three.

Her family consists of Mama, Abuela, herself, and whatever man Mama brings home each night. Calmly, Abuela explains to Mimi that those men aren't family, they are Mama's _fun_, but Mimi doesn't understand what that means and decides that it is simply easier to group them among the _other _family members. She makes the classification of _family _based upon where people sleep, which is rarely accurate, because Mama does not always sleep at home with Mimi and Abuela; sometimes, she does not come home until long after Mimi falls asleep with the sun tucked under her pillow, and then the door opens, failing to wake up the tiny, fragile girl in the middle of her untroubled sleep. When her eyes flicker open come morning, Mama and Abuela sit at the table, exchanging secretive glances and eyes flickering back to the "sleeping" girl on the sofa.

The men Mama brings home are scary, Mimi knows. When they do stay 'till morning, they leer at Mimi and ask Mama how old she is in a tone of voice that makes Mimi tremble. Their voices buzz, their breathing cologned with alcohol, leaving trails of hair in the shower and thundering through the tiny one-bedroom apartment. Mama does not explain these specimens to Mimi, but Abuela sits with her granddaughter and muses aloud in Spanish, her words translating into "_I _wasn't like this after my first kid." Mimi does not know what she means, but she knows that Abuela is angry, so she huddles up close to Abuela's warm body and lets her eyes flicker closed, eliminating the chocolate orbs' contemplation of the room as she falls asleep.

Abuela strokes Mimi's sleeping body, praying frantically that the child will not grow up to be like her mother. But then again, children are impressionable creatures. All that can be done is to give her another role model… but there seem to be none to spare in the house of the Marquez clan.

----

Mimi is four.

Far from the tender stereotype of feminine perkiness in four-year-old girls, Mimi is like a tiger, all teeth and sharp nails and fierce passion. Preschool is, for her at least, in which she has allotted time to socialize. Rather than making friends by way of shy greetings and invitations to play-dates, Mimi forms her acquaintences in a particularly unorthodox way. Teeth bared, nails poised to scratch, Mimi leaps onto her fellow classmates, one at a time, with only the slightest warning: her low squeal as she zooms toward someone. Fights of this magnitude were, prior to Mimi's arrival, _not _the norm in her Chicago elementary school, but due to Mimi and her energy, they become a regular occurance, and the number of children signing up for next year's class drops severely.

Mimi's victims are far from enemies. No; they are more like siblings to her, fighting as much as they do. Mimi fights like the youngest child in a family of twenty-odd attention-stealing individuals, claws scraping against flesh as she rolls over and over and over and over, jerking bony elbow and knee into tender spots. Her teeth dig into the shoulders of the particularly bothersome people, but for the most part, Mimi's fights are almost playful. As painful as she can be, she controls herself, deliberately only hitting as hard as her companion. And they are not, by any means, opponents. She does not fight for a victory and a loss, nor for a smug self-satisfaction telling her who is more powerful.

Mimi fights for sport, and it is evident in every playful tussel from which she walks away, unharmed beyond cuts and bruises that fade with time.

-----

Mimi is five.

There is a brief scare in her household when Mama's boyfriend (of the week, a record in length for Mama's upholding a relationship) brings home a pregnancy test, and suddenly Abuela observes loudly that there is a new curve in Mama's stomach. Filled with terror, Mama shuts herself in the apartment's only bedroom – hers, although it should be Abuela's – assumedly to perform the test. When she emerges, she is silent, and Abuela is frustrated. "_Tell _me, chica," she insists, but Mama turns away. Mimi watches in horror as Mama eventually confesses, a week later, that yes, there was a child growing inside her – but now, it is no longer.

Mimi does not understand. "What happened?" she asks again and again. "What happened? Where did it go?"

Abuela shakes her head sadly. "Your mama did a bad thing," she tells Mimi in broken English, most of the sentence Spanish save for maybe a word or two. In English, she says, "She had a baby, but she knew that the baby would never have a daddy and didn't want to make it grow up so lonely."

Mimi remains puzzled. "I don't have a daddy," she points out placidly.

"You're right," Abuela agrees. "But Mimi, _mi vida_, your mama thought that you would. See, Mimi, love, I _had _a man. He would have been your granddaddy."

Mimi understands.

------

Mimi is six.

Stubborn, she refuses to agree with her teacher that "Mimi" spells her name when "me, me" means something else entirely. "It _sounds _the same," she protests. "It has to look the same, and it has to be the same." Her arms crossed over her chest, Mimi tucks her legs beneath her body as she peers at the teacher from her tiny first-grader-sized chair.

The teacher desperately searches for a comparison she can make to explain the difference between "me, me" and "Mimi." She struggles at first, explaining that English is a very strange language – which Mimi agrees, already speaking about half as much Spanish as she does English, a fair accomplishment for a six-year-old – and then falls to the alphabet chart in the front of the room. When Mimi still refuses to believe this, the teacher seeks out another explanation.

"Mimi," she says calmly, "your name is a name. It always means you. But depending on who says 'me,' it means different people. It isn't always you?" Mimi still shakes her head, and at last, the teacher finds another way to explain this to the little girl. "Listen, Mimi, sweetie. You know how lots of things can sound the same? Like some people, when they laugh, it sounds the same as their crying."

Mimi knows of these people. Abuela, for example, has the same noisy tears as laughter. She nods, and the teacher continues, "Well, the same happens with words, too. For example, 'two,' the number, sounds like 'too,' which means also. Do you know those words?" Mimi nods again, hating this patronizing way of her teacher, and ignores it when her teacher makes more silly comparisons.

"I hate you," Mimi tells her teacher calmly. "I don't like people who act like I'm little. My name goes Me-Me."

It is nearly nine months before Mimi learns the real way to spell her name, but then again, it _is _her name; isn't it up to her to spell it how she would like? In fact, Mimi believes, she ought to be able to decide other things about her own life as well. Her first way of doing this is by telling everyone that she is nine, and old for her age.

-------

Mimi is seven.

Although she has had short hair up until this year, she has never really liked the feeling of having nothing warming her neck. It takes time, and it takes patience, but Mimi steadily grows her hair out more, following the instructions in a library book teaching her how to make her hair grow more – certain types of vegetables are reccomended, and Mimi follows the guidelines with ease. Carrots are for her eyes, lettuce for her figure, and according to this book (which Mama calls "trash" and "untrustworthy"), celery is for the lengthening of her hair.

It is October when Abuela at last tries to cut Mimi's hair, still at a medium length. Instinctively, Mimi wrestles away, digging her sharp nails into her grandmother's arms as she slides out of reach. Once in Mama's room with the door closed, Mimi hears the lock opening. Frantic as Abuela enters, Mimi flails about, her arms flapping, her shoulder-length hair keeping a safe distance from the silvery instrument of torture that is a scissor. She adores her hair this length, but wants it longer; so she tells Abuela.

"Your funeral," mutters the old woman as she exits, although she promises Mimi that "you're not gonna like it when it's long like that and turns gray."

"Well," says Mimi petulantly, "at least mine won't fall out like yours. When it's long, it _stays_, like the more glue you put on a paper, the more it sticks."

Abuela says something very rude to Mimi and leaves. Mimi smirks and runs her fingers through her hair, which already feels longer.

--------

Mimi is eight.

Abuela and Mama have someplace to be, so Mimi is entrusted into the care of a neighbor for an evening. She is quiet, not wanting to disturb anyone or anything, and merely goes along with the family when a daughter leaves for her dance lessons. Mimi watches with the girl's parents, staring in awe as pirouettes and spins and turns are performed. She adores the flowing bodies, arms flailing as art is acted out before Mimi's very eyes. She gazes at the leotards and wants one of her own; she strokes an abandoned pair of dancing shoes and tries them on. Her eyes flick over to her temporary guardian, who turns out to be in the bathroom, and impulse compels Mimi to get up and join the dancers. The too-small shoes clutch her feet, digging into the skin, forcing every move to be correct.

"Can I dance?" Mimi inquires softly, but nobody gives her an answer. The teacher is explaining a rather complicated turn, and Mimi flows with the group as she imitates the instructor's directions. The other dancers stumble through it – some even electing to ignore the instructions altogether – but Mimi's legs glide through the motions without a single argument. Her long hair and long skirt, once Mama's, billows out around her as she spins again, again, and again.

The instructor paces the rows of dancers, correcting some girls' stances and straightening boys' toes and postures. When she comes to Mimi, she does not ask if the little girl's parents paid for the lesson, but breaks out into a smile. "Perfect," she says, and pats Mimi on the shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Mimi," says Mimi, and she smiles and repeats the movement. The teacher beams at her, proud and pleased and just impressed.

The teacher suggests, "Maybe you should be a dancer when you grow up. Come back to next week's lesson. I'm sure some girls who aren't doing anything are paying your way."

And although it is not to be, Mimi appreciates the gesture and continues spinning and spinning, a flicker of of sunlight peeking in through the window. She pretends that it is her spotlight as she continues to twirl and swirl and spin.

---------

Mimi is nine.

Her sinewy body strained toward the left, and then the right, Mimi tries her warm-ups. They aren't hers, precisely, nor are they official warm-ups, but they are ways for her to remember that she loves dance, and that she wants to be a dancer. Then again, what other career choices are there? Mimi loathes school, loathes being told that this means this and that means that; it feels almost like a dictatorship, where the teachers hold the power and the students are all merely cogs in the machine. She will not take a job that requires schooling, which severely narrows her choices.

In the end, art and athleticism are all that remain of Mimi's options. Both sound pleasant enough; she is physically gifted enough to be an athlete, and dance is a sport, surely? Just the same, art requires heart and soul in a way that sports do not, and Mimi surely has that as well. Dance, however, is an art just as it is an athletic action. No other form of art is a sport as well, Mimi realizes, save perhaps for gymnastics, which is almost a dance just the same.

I _will _be a dancer, Mimi tells herself decisively. I _will_.

So it is said, so shall it be.

----------

Mimi is ten.

Young though she is, it is almost commonplace for young Chicago girls to stumble across the dark world of drugs and alcohol. There is cocaine and marijuana, nicotine and – that which Mimi stumbles across – heroin. It is nothing more than a syringe and a packet of powder, bestowed upon her by a man in a park, but Mimi ponders it. _To try, or not to try_? It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth when she sets the drug aside, as though she is giving up a potential vice that will help her through her challenges. A young man sees her on the park bench, turning the needle over and over, and he escorts Mimi to her apartment. Something about him makes Mimi wonder who he is, where he comes from – why, she wonders again and again, is he so helpful?

But Abuela and Mama are not home, so this new man escorts Mimi inside and to her stove. "This is what you do," he explains patiently, hands guiding hers as he makes powder into liquid, inserts it into the syringe, and hands it to the ten-year-old. "Have fun!" he calls almost mockingly as he leaves, the needle still in Mimi's hands as she gazes at it.

She takes the drug.

She loves it.

She never sees the man again.

-----------

Mimi is eleven.

While her classmates are studying up on knowledge of their favorite celebrities, Mimi is practicing dance. She has music in Mama's bedroom, music on a casette in a beat-up casette player stolen – no, _borrowed_ – from her school. The wire snakes down to an extension cord in the living room, holding the door slightly open as she dances and twirls and pirouettes. Abuela enters once, intending to put away Mama's laundry, and when she sees Mimi writhing and spinning, she wrinkles her nose. "Silly girl," she mutters. "Foolish dreams."

Mimi laughs and kicks her leg out, mildly injuring Abuela and sending her out of the room. "Thank you," she says, poised and perfect, "for viewing the show of Princess Mimi." She swirls beautifully, sings, "have a nice day," and flops on the bed with a smile on her face.

Dancing is truly her passion, and she loves it even more with an audience. Even, she knows, when her audience is a cranky old woman with no friends, no husband, and a daughter who is a slut.

Is Mimi a slut? Or are her dreams simply unorthodox?

------------

Mimi is twelve.

It is headline news one day: a gifted professional dancer, youthful and beautiful, has been injured in a simple dance – normally standard procedure, an easy feat involving little skill. Mimi spends the day in Mama's bedroom, attempting to master the very thing that was the other young girl's downfall, and manages it at four-thirty in the afternoon. Her hair, which now reaches her waist, swoops around Mimi's body like a cocoon. When the movement is perfected, Mimi leaves only to snag up every free newspaper and magazine she can find, devouring the story of the girl's injury with the intensity of Mama's never-ending boyfriend hunt, or Abuela's deep longing for serenity.

Mimi understands the situation by dinnertime. The girl was _not _injured accidentally in her dance, but rather set up by an opposing dancer, whose fevered passion filled her with a desire to win. A single still shot appears in nearly every magazine Mimi finds: the injured dancer, her scarlet hair short and piled atop her head, stood poised and perfect in the instant before her foot slid across the floor, forcing her into an impossibly wide split with her arms and hair suddenly splayed out beneath her. Although the photograph is a "before" shot, the image of the girl prior to the injury, Mimi can imagine the horrible contortion of the dancer's body a single moment later, the image in her mind created from the words of eyewitnesses quoted in newspapers.

"Abuela?" Mimi asks softly. "Abuela, why are people mean?"

Abuela turns her head. "They're only mean with a motive, Mimi," she explains patiently. "It's jealousy, it's hatred, it's lust, or it's one of a million other things. But people aren't _mean_."

-------------

Mimi is thirteen.

She rarely goes to school – rather, she rarely goes to _class _– but one day, she decides to go. That day, she is called down to the office and sent home. Baffled, Mimi is picked up by Abuela, brought back home, and is told what is going on.

Mama is HIV-positive.

The disease was given to Mama by one of her many one-night stands, a particularly attractive but untalkative young man maybe five years Mama's junior. Mama is twenty-eight, and insists that it is impossible for her to have AIDS. Mimi, who knows the difference between HIV and AIDS from a few health classes, just watches in silence as Mama leaks tears all over the couch. Abuela casually exits the apartment, probably to get tested, leaving Mimi alone with Mama.

Mimi stares into Mama's cold eyes, trying to see what Mama has done to deserve this fate. She can come up with no real explanation, and merely slides her knees up into her zippered jacket, closes her eyes, and ponders her query before falling asleep. Yet the answer comes to Mimi when, the same night, Mama disappears for three hours and returns with another man, his body pressed tightly to her chest as they make their way into the bedroom. Mimi stares at Abuela, who just sighs deeply. "Do you think he knows what Mama _has_?"

Abuela laughs hollowly. Translated into English, her response is, "Mimi, love, if _she_ even knows in this state of intoxication, it's a wonder."

--------------

Mimi is fourteen.

It is a wonder it has not happened before, considering Mimi's unbringing and raw beauty, but it is this year that she has sex for the first time. It is only that: sex. It is not love, because Mimi does not love her partner, and it is not a crush or even simple attraction, because it is something else. It is desparation, Mimi's young curiosity leading her to wonder what it is all about, this collision of bodies that makes every adult and teenager in the world do stupid things, risky things, desperate things. She needs to know, needs to be prepared and ready for eighteen, for seventeen, for sixteen and fifteen, the years that are closing in around her, stifling her with adulthood, with the promise of living with Mama and Abuela all her life, having a child and raising him or her in _this _environment.

No. Mimi isn't doing all _that _just yet. All she does is tumble into bed with a nameless classmate of hers, a boy whose blondish-brown hair dangles just above his shoulders, tickling Mimi's own skin as he lies on top of her. He is just as curious as she is, his hands rolling over curves and caressing exposed skin. Mimi wants to writhe away, but finds herself enjoying it – as much as Mama? No. Surely not. This is one time. She isn't a whore, a slut, the words that Abuela mutters in Spanish and learns in English just so Mama will understand every word, can hear what Abuela thinks of her daughter. Surely she won't think that of Mimi as well?

Mimi doesn't really care, to tell the truth. She is enjoying her ecstacy, enjoying the contact and crushing lips against her own, and lets all other thoughts drain out of her mind as she rolls onto her side to kiss her partner again before, hours later, getting up and leaving and never seeing him again.

She still doesn't know his name.

---------------

Mimi is fifteen.

Having had enough of the frustration that comes with watching Mama infect hundreds of new men with her fatal disease, Mimi decides to stop pressing her face into the pillow and ignoring it. She approaches Mama and calmly announces, "Mama, you have to stop living like this." The response is negative; Mama crosses her arms over her chest and demands to know what Mimi has to say, and whether it holds any worth. Mimi serenely admonishes Mama, "You're living as if your life has no end. Fucking people and giving more people the disease that is going to _kill _you. You're living with no remorse."

Mama shakes her head. "I have to enjoy my last years," she whispers.

Mimi knows differently. "You aren't enjoying them," she points out. "You're just throwing them away. If you finished school, that would be enjoying them. If you got a job, if you got a real boyfriend, if you…"

"Shut up!" Mama shrieks. "Shut up!"

Mimi continues to talk, now explaining the flaws that Mama has. Outraged, Mama grabs Mimi's arm, tears off a bandage from her own hand, scratches Mimi's arm, and presses the two cuts together. "There!" she yells.

Her eyes closed, her feet moving of their own accord, Mimi gathers her few belongings – clothing, a syringe, and heroin – and exits the apartment for a final time.

The city is the light that guides her away from home, and Mama the force pushing her. "Bye, Abuela," she calls before the door closes behind her.

From New York City, months later, Mimi can squint back and almost see the Chicago skyline, its buildings throwing smoke into the eyes of tourists as Mimi curls up on the street of this _new _city, fingers blue and already-skinny frame turning into that of a skeleton. It is a hard life, but Mama and Abuela's home was far from luxurious, and the newly-HIV-positive young dancer keeps her artistic dreams in mind as she tries to let her long hair shield her from the cold.


	9. April

---

April is three.

When she closes her eyes, she can see Daddy. Mama tells her that she can't, that it's been three years since she even _saw _Daddy, but April knows that who she sees has to be her father. She sees a tall man with her own celery-colored eyes, his hands greasy and scratched with calluses from the way he strokes his guitar strings every night. His eyes are slightly dim from gazing into shiny colored lights every night, but he has a way of holding someone's gaze that April doubts her own imagination could have conjured. And in these visualizations, Daddy has fair hair tied in a long ponytail and leather boots as shiny as the tiny leather jacket Mama bought April for Christmas last year.

April tells Mama how she visualizes Daddy, how she pictures his exotic, lavishly-decorated tour bus. Mama tells April that she's wrong, that Daddy lives nowhere special, that he has an awful life and misses his family all the time. April doesn't understand why Mama doesn't see what she sees, why she doesn't know what April knows, why she doesn't understand how wonderful it is that Daddy sees new, exciting places and performs his terrific music nightly to an appreciative audience. Mama doesn't understand, and April wants to just grab Mama and explain it all to her, can explain that she _knows _why Daddy doesn't want to stay in boring old Scarsdale when there are places to see and songs to perform.

But she doesn't, because some things, even a three-year-old can grasp. And April knows better than to make Mama cry.

----

April is four.

It is strange, but after the passage of a single year, she has somehow forgotten her determination to never ask Mama about Daddy. One day, she does. She is curled up on the sofa of her suburban castle, her scarlet hair splayed out around her head. "Mama?" she asks softly to the maternal figure busily preparing breakfast in the kitchen. "When does he get back?"

Without missing a beat, without asking April who she means or why she's asking, Mama responds, "You'll be seven, April baby."

"But how many _days_?" she whines, because days are the sole and favored measurement of those who can neither tell time nor understand the exact length of a year. In fact, at four, April cannot recall incidents having happened a year or more ago. (Except, of course, Daddy, who she may or may not actually remember. After all, there is such a thing as creativity to the extent of drawing up nonexistent memories.)

Mama sighs. While April whines loudly about how she _needs to know_, her mother gazes out the window as if using her own imagination to conjure up her husband's tour bus. After several long moments, she answers dully, "You'll be in second grade."

"That's not _days_," April mumbles irritably, but Mama is already in her room, puffing desperately on a cigarette as though it is the only friend she will ever have.

-----

April is five.

In kindergarten, the teacher establishes rules and goals on the first day. On the second day, all rules are broken, goals shattered, and ideals destroyed. Five-year-olds cannot be forced to do _anything_, it seems, unless that something involves stealing cookies and juice and trying to set the playground on fire by kicking sticks together.

Within a month, it is shocking, but some form of order is established. The students, April included, develop a modicum of respect for their teacher; the teacher, therefore, learns that students must be treated with respect as well. So crafts and games are brought out without much of an argument from either party, teacher or class, and are well-received among the students.

April, against her contrary nature, finds herself enjoying kindergarten more than she ever enjoyed long days at home with Mama and cigarette smoke. Here, the air is clean, which is a definite bonus; in addition, April has unlimited access to paints and crayons and markers and anything she might ever need to make a beautiful picture. She draws everything – Mama, her class, her teacher, her house, her school, her father. She draws smiling faces on everyone, particularly herself in self-portraits… even if her own face does not always reflect that.

------

April is six.

First grade means work. First grade means that crayon distributions are few and far between, that instead, April has to hold a fat pencil between her thumb and forefinger, practicing the penmanship she thinks is idiotic. Why do people need to write things anyway? she wonders. Aren't drawings so much more detailed, more informative? Not least of all, they are more colorful.

On holidays, however, April's teacher carries out the bucket of crayons and markers and allows the students to create arts and crafts. For Halloween, masks are made. For any single student's birthday, drawings are created and distributed to that one student. For Christmas and, more commonly in Scarsdale, Hanukkah, construction paper is strewn out on the crafts table, along with sequins and glitter to make holiday cards.

Mother's Day is observed like the second coming of Jesus. Cards and tiny books are created, telling the story of "Why I Love Mommy" for every student in the entire class. When, a month later, Father's Day comes up, April doesn't miss a beat when asked to draw a picture of herself and her father. Expertly utilizing her wild imagination, April draws herself, asleep in bed, with a tiny dream cloud connecting her to her father.

She shows it to her mother, and Mama cries.

-------

April is seven.

Tensions are running high in the days prior to Daddy's scheduled return. Mama invites lots of people to the house and tells April to be quiet, be good, be on her best behavior. April listens, changing into her favorite skirt and shirt so that Daddy can see how pretty she is. She even washes her hair in the shower every night for a week, even though she prefers baths and hates spending all that time getting clean when she'll just get dirty again anyway. She hates washing her hair, but she does it thoroughly, wanting to look her best for Daddy.

The way Mama says it is going to work is that a bus will pull up in front of their house and Daddy and the other people in his band will get out, escort him to the door, say their hellos and goodbyes, and leave. Only Daddy will remain afterwards, and will be hounded by Mama, these strange people who are here, and of course April. That is the only moment April cares about, and she is plotting meticulously in her head the exact way she will run forth and leap into Daddy's arms. She wants to hold him tightly around the neck and kiss him and tell him that she loves him and she misses him and she knows they're going to be best friends.

Mama's twenty-year-old sister (whom April is explicitly forbidden to call "Aunt"), Jennifer, frowns upon this idea. She tells April it might be a better idea to be calm, be mellow, to approach Daddy with caution and smile shyly and let him direct the proceedings. April, however, is adamant that things must go according to her own plan, that Daddy needs to see who _she _is, not who she is in church on Sundays. Jennifer sighs, but does not push the matter, and instead leaves to go occupy herself with the cooking and decorations. Mama wants everything to be perfect for Daddy.

When the doorbell rings, April is already beside the door, her smile already plastered onto her head. Mama and her friends and relatives are close behind her, but it is April who wrestles the door open and gazes up into the celery eyes of Theodore ("Theo" or "Rock God," never "Theodore" or "Daddy") Ericcson.

"I'm April," she says in the tiniest whisper she can possibly muster. Expecting a hug, she throws her arms out.

Daddy sidesteps his daughter and places his bags down on the floor beside the door. "Donna," he says to Mama in astonishment, "This place hasn't changed a bit." As his bandmates flow in through the open door, it takes Daddy several minutes to ask casually, "Who's the kid?"

April dashes up the stairs, tears running down her face, and it is hours upon hours before there is Mama's hand on her back, gently stroking her to sleep.

--------

April is eight.

Defying her predictions in every way possible, Daddy's presence is infrequent and daunting. Never in the Ericcson household has it ever been unusual to find April hunched over the living room table, legs twisted beneath her as she sketches something in pencil, charcoal, or watercolor. However, when Daddy comes across April's art one Saturday morning in early August, he shakes the hair out of his eyes and demands, "What in god's name are you doing?" April, rather than giving Daddy the blunt answer she would give Mama if ever Mama asked so ridiculous a question, merely gathers her paint and paper and _flees_, running until she reaches her room. She closes the door behind her and sets up her art supplies at a tiny table by the window, letting sunlight flow in.

While Friday nights were practically sacred prior to Daddy's arrival, often featuring board games or movies, April now finds these evenings to be as gray and dull as every other night. She is instructed to remain in her room at all times, in spite of the blasting music coming from downstairs and the creaking of springs all throughout the house. She grows used to the lights finally dimming at four in the morning on weekends, and when she awakens at around eleven, she finds her path to the kitchen blocked by sleeping bodies scattered all over the floor.

"I've had parties before, too," Mama tells April, but the child knows that this is not true. While Mama was not unknown to _go _to a party or two every month or so, never had a party _ever _been hosted by the Ericcson family before Daddy arrived. Even on Christmas, Mama and April used to pack up their belongings and go to Grandma's house the morning directly after Mama's office party. The Ericcsons were never a family for the hardcore lifestyle Daddy seems to like – while he enjoys parties, drinking, and stupid card games, April and Mama prefer ice cream cake, cuddling on the couch, and wistful fantasies of a better life that is never to be lived.

---------

April is nine.

Thanksgiving rolls around, with Daddy and his friends arriving late because "practice ran late, sorry, Donna." Mama isn't stupid, and neither is April. They know that there was no practice going on, and that Daddy was probably out with That Girl again, the one with the velvety dark hair and the slightly squinty greenish-blue eyes. She's tiny – too skinny for April too look at her for too long without wincing – and April has only seen her once, only peered through the bars of the stairway to see who was making that shrill squeal of delight the moment Daddy finally wrestled the cork out of the wine bottle with his teeth.

At Thanksgiving, Mama is somber and quiet, letting Daddy's praise of her cooking roll over her like ocean waves rushing over anything in their path. April lays the compliments on thickly, her mouth full, proclaiming to Daddy's friends that "saying that Mama cooks well is like saying that merry-go-rounds are _kinda fun_. It says a little bit, but not enough." She is very pleased with her own analogy, and uses it repeatedly over the course of the night.

When everyone is told to share their what-I'm-thankful-fors, Daddy hesitates and says he will go last. Mama says she is thankful for her daughter, which April thinks is slightly strange because every other year she's said she was thankful for her entire family. But this is disregarded in Daddy's friends' haste to exchange _their _thankful-fors. It takes seven long minutes for it to be April's turn, and she says primly that she is thankful for her family.

Daddy comes next, and says the same thing, but April doubts that he means it.

----------

April is ten.

For some people, being ten means that they can count their age in double digits.

For April, it means that she can use her age as a way to remember the number of antidepressant pills Mama is, according to her prescription, supposed to consume in a week.

And still, the number is wrong. Mama consumes twelve sometimes, maybe fourteen. But still, April thinks she is depressed, because Mama never smiles.

April takes one of the pills once. Still, she doesn't smile or laugh. As she contemplates taking another one, she recalls the messy slurping sounds Mama makes when she cries, drugged on antidepressants. Rather than swallowing another pill, April collapses against her mattress, suddenly more tired than she has ever been before in her life.

-----------

April is eleven.

These are her days of preadolescent rebellion. Her hair and eyes wild, April takes to vandalizing and cursing. Mama looks on in horror, having known her daughter for the girl's entire life (unlike Daddy), startled. April was never like this when she was younger – always, she was quiet and contemplative, wildly ambitious and very engrossed in her fantasies. Now, it seems that April has abandoned her happy, childish dreams in favor of more entertaining pastimes – which usually, if not always, either fall under the category of "illegal" or "immoral".

Daddy, in an attempt to seem fatherly and authorative, storms into April's room one eleven-thirty p.m., mere hours after April returned home from her adventure spray-painting the back wall of her school. Though Daddy is high and probably drunk as well, he does his best to uphold a mask of anger and power. "Girl," he says firmly, "you stop this behavior at once." His words slur together, syllables falling into one another like slush trickling into a ditch. April, amused and annoyed all at once, snickers and comments dryly, "You'd better get to bed, Dad – either that, or over to that girl's house."

The problem with April's saying this is that, as soon as Dad leaves and slams the door, her face falls into her pillow and, within minutes, teardrops are trickling from her eyes, and her pillow is soaked.

Before she sleeps, April merely flips her pillow over and, softly, sings herself a lullaby.

------------

April is twelve.

For any child, this is bound to be an awkward age. For April, it is even worse. For April, it means that Mama has decided that her daughter ought to be taught about that which she has already known for years. It means lectures and unhelpful donations of tampons she has been using for a year already. It means that Daddy is not ashamed to walk around the house naked, already under the impression that April has "seen it all on other boys already." Whether or not this is true is debatable – while April cannot quite _remember _it, she has been drunk a few times by this age, once being at a Bat Mitzvah. She has no idea what happened, and does not really want to know.

But being twelve means something else, too.

It means that in some people's eyes, she is an adult. In some people's eyes, she can go to the store and get cigarettes for her parents and herself. In some people's eyes, it means she can baby-sit that kid who lives a few blocks down, walk the neighborhood dogs, or even, as she personally believes, get drunk.

In other people's eyes, she can't do any of those things. She can, however, squeeze into the baby swings on a playground and see-saw with toddlers. According to certain people, it would be well within the rights of a twelve-year-old for April to throw a temper tantrum over a candy bar.

April, however, isn't picky. She takes advantages from both categories, leaving behind the negative aspects. Or so she thinks, anyway.

-------------

April is thirteen.

As anti-social as she is or can be, a bizarre twist of fate leads her to befriend a girl in her class. Her name is Cindy Cohen, and with her long blond hair and permanently ditzy expression, April would _never _initiate a friendship with this girl. Therefore, it is Cindy who does the initiating, commenting on April's "unusual choice in books," which so happens to follow the pattern of being either horror or tragedy depending on the day of the week and Daddy's mood at home. On this particular day, it is horror, because Daddy has taken to bringing That Girl home again and April is tired of tragedy and of Mama's squeaks when she tries to avoid the subject and refrain from saying how miserable she is. Misery grows tiring after awhile.

So, when tedious, attention-seeking Cindy comments on the book, April makes a noncommittal grunting noise. Cindy persists, however, by complimenting April's hair. Self-conscious, April raises a hand to her tangled mess, but Cindy laughs and says that she was kidding. April returns to her book, annoyed, but after awhile she begins to sense Cindy's eyes on her. "What?" April demands.

Cindy shrugs. "You want to come over after school?" she offers tentatively. "I have a pool. And Jacuzzi. And a little brother, but he'll stay out of our way."

"Do you're think we're _five_?" April wants to ask, but doesn't, because she really wants any excuse to not be at home with Mama, Daddy, the band and That Girl.

She shrugs. "Sure."

And the rest of the day, surprisingly, is enjoyable.

--------------

April is fourteen.

Although April has been going to Cindy's house regularly for nearly a year, it still comes to a shock to her when, for the first time, she meets Mark.

She has met Cindy's parents before. They are frequent presences, always hovering and governing and laying down their rules, reminding Cindy to behave and bring this, this and this to school tomorrow, to not forget to do her homework and set the table. They nag and insist and frustrate their victims, opening Cindy's bedroom door to pay her a visit and leaving it open as they leave. They are as far from Mama and Daddy as possible, and Cindy loves them.

However, in spite of the outgoing, ambitious daughter and nagging, irritating parents, there is a silent member of the Cohen family. He is quiet, never playing music in his room the way Cindy does in hers, never objecting to her volume and never, above all, making his presence known to anyone. April vaguely recalls being told by Cindy that she had a brother, but it is nearly a year before April sees him.

He has his sister's blue eyes and blond hair, pale skin and tiny frame. He averts his eyes from everyone, staring at his own feet, and walks briskly as though to escape any potential followers.

"Who was that?" April asks as he passes by her for the first time.

Cindy shrugs. "My brother," she says, and cranks up the volume on her radio. "He's a total freakazoid. Anyway, you want to get some ice cream?"

---------------

April is fifteen.

She decides that some things simply do not need to be known by anyone.

For example, people don't need to know other people's business. It seems obvious, but apparently it isn't. In the Ericcson household, it isn't quite so bad as it must be at other people's houses – Cindy's, for example – but, still, invasions of privacy are frequent and infuriating. When April is lying in bed with a boy from school, naked and sweaty, Mama chooses that moment to poke her head into her daughter's bedroom without knocking. She leaves, of course, and apologizes later, but the memory haunts April, and from that point forward, she spends the night at boys' houses instead.

Something else that people don't need to know is who is sleeping with whom. It seems to be common knowledge at Scarsdale High and, while Cindy does not attend this school, April always ends up finding out the details of Cindy's sex life as well. (It is, April is amused to discover, remarkably uneventful, in contrast to her own.)

It is this last fact that is completely defied one day (in, mockingly, the month of April) when April knocks tentatively on Mama and Daddy's bedroom door, opens it when she hears no response, and comes across Daddy and That Girl.

In bed.

Together.

April makes a dash for the bathroom, and is on her knees ready to vomit before she remembers the school lecture on not making oneself throw up, even just for drama's sake. She considers this momentarily, then sticks her finger down her throat anyway.

----------------

April is sixteen.

After a tedious three-year-long attempt at friendship, April and Cindy at last decide to permanently end their friendship. For Cindy, this is an opportunity for drama; she takes to placing rude phone calls to April and openly mocking the outcast in the presence of pretty, popular girls and the select few boys in Scarsdale whose tempers are mild enough to tolerate the frustrating girl that is Cindy. For April, however, the end of their friendship is merely another end, and nothing more. She is aggravated by Cindy's persistence, but shrugs it off as a stupid girl just being immature. There are a lot of those. April hates them.

What's strange is that, as Cindy drifts out of April's life, some teenage rebellion bubbles up inside her. It is a subconscious reaction to being "friend-dumped," but nonetheless, it is powerful. April, for all her maturity and being wise beyond her years, is drawn toward Mark, Cindy's underappreciated younger brother, a pale, scrawny boy with not enough confidence and definitely, definitely not enough fun. So April, being the loving, curious girl that she is, takes Mark under her wing and resolves to expose him to the world as she sees it, through wild eyes.

It is practically a given that Mark resists at first. April, however, is smoothly persuasive in terms of making Mark feel that he _needs _this friendship. She knows that he is lonely and bored; with that in mind, April warps him into an entirely different person without even having to do much. From her pocket she will draw car keys, and Mark is immediately compelled to touch all that is shiny, to learn how to drive; similarly, when she slides a packet of some drug out of her pocket, Mark wants to touch it and use it and try it, to see and know all that there is to see and know in the world.

-----------------

April is seventeen.

It's enough. Daddy is sleeping with That Girl. Mark is alone, facing the brunt of Cindy's wrath now that her friends don't like her. Mama is taking way, way too many sleeping pills. A boy in Mark's class is harassing him, writing nasty songs about him. All of these things fuel April's hatred for this world, for this suburban hell, for the metaphoric walls surrounding Scarsdale and all the people in it. In a burst of rage, one day, when she draws the car keys from her pocket, a thought strikes April.

She wants to leave. A voice in her head insists that it would never work, that she would get caught, that Daddy needs his car and would probably hunt her down to get it back.

But April loves adventure, and she hates this loathsome land of Suburbia. It's decided.

"Mark?" she asks, her voice cool and composed. "I'm leaving. Come with?"

It isn't long before the best friends are in the car, alternating between being depressed and being delighted as they let the wind whip their hair. The city is their destination, the sparkling realm of Manhattan, but April is not above making pit stops along the way.

There are bars she's never been to and clubs where she's always wanted to dance.

She's seventeen and beautiful, wild and adventurous. She wants to do everything, and she has all the time in the world.


End file.
